


Sherlock Left The Wedding Early

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Elements of Season 4, Eventual Fluff, Fix-It, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mycroft's Meddling, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Canon Compliant With s03e03 His Last Vow And Season 4, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock's First Time, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23024461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: After John and Mary's wedding, Sherlock returns to Baker Street. He is being awaited - and offered an arrangement.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 162
Kudos: 175





	1. The Suggestion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



Sherlock closed his eyes. No. He couldn’t deal with this now. Why ever had he called him earlier? What had he been thinking? And why had his brother refused to come to the wedding just to wait for him in his flat now like a spider in its web? All Sherlock wanted was to be alone. Take a hot shower, go to bed, pull the blanket over his head.

He knew that he was being pathetic. Fine, John was married now. He would soon be a father. Perhaps he would never join him in solving cases again. But this was life. It had been to be expected that John would eventually have a serious relationship. After all he, Sherlock, had been away for two years… And he had never wanted anything from John! Apart from his assistance. Going grocery shopping. Keeping Donovan and Anderson away from him! And he liked Mary. They were great together. Only sometimes… he thought something was strange about her… But that was no jealousy. Just his typical suspicious mind… Or a deduction he could not grasp? Didn’t matter.

He put the knocker into its rightful position and entered the house. It was silent. Of course – Mrs Hudson was still at the party. Perhaps Mycroft had given up waiting for him and left already? Or some passer-by had straightened the damn thing?

When he had entered his flat after dragging himself upstairs, he saw at once that he wasn’t that lucky. The umbrella was leaning against the wall like a bad omen. Mycroft's coat was hanging at the wardrobe, oozing perfection like his brother did.

And the man himself was sitting in Sherlock's armchair when he had, sighing, entered the living room after putting the bag with his violin onto the corridor floor and hanging up his coat next to Mycroft's. “You can as well leave, Mycroft. I’m fine.” Not that he really thought that his brother was here to check on his well-being. He would only lord his weakness over him. People like them didn’t ‘get involved’… Caring was not an advantage… Sherlock had gotten it long ago.

“Good evening, brother. Sit down.”

“You’re sitting in my chair.”

The older man gave him a false-friendly smile. “I know. Take the other one. Or the client’s chair. Or the couch. Or the floor, if you prefer.”

Sherlock bit his lip. He wouldn’t let Mycroft provoke him. With crossed arms, he let himself drop onto the couch, trying and failing to feign indifference. “What do you want? My help on another case that is too difficult for you to solve?” As if he didn’t know that Mycroft would have never seriously needed his assistance on cases. He either demanded from him to take care of them to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t get high or because he was simply too lazy to do it himself. Or too busy, maybe. Or because he liked to give orders. Anyway…

“In fact I’m here to offer you _my_ help,” Mycroft said calmly. “You asked me to come to the wedding.” He said the last word as if it was a ghastly illness. And in his eyes, it probably was. Actually in Sherlock's eyes it was just the same…

“That was just a spur of a moment thing. Forget about it. I’m sure you have something else to do and I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

“And yet am I here to do exactly that,” Mycroft deadpanned.

“Sorry what?”

Mycroft sighed. Nobody could express so much exasperation, annoyance and impatience in a sigh like his brother could. “Let me explain myself.”

“Now that can take ages...”

Mycroft rolled his eyes (another reaction he had mastered like nobody else). “Can you just keep silent and listen to me for a minute, Sherlock?”

“If I must...”

“Fine. I analysed your behaviour earlier when we spoke. Silence! And I have come to the conclusion that you reached out to me because you did lose your dear friend Doctor Watson in a way you might have not realised yourself.”

He paused and Sherlock grimaced. “Spare me this lecture, please. John is my friend and nothing else.”

“Really? Have you never imagined having some physical contact with him?”

Sherlock blushed, much to his own chagrin. “No.”

“Of course not. You came back from your mission to find him in a relationship with someone else. Did that not disturb you?”

“No.” Yes. Of course it had…

“He was even rather ghastly to you when you confronted him, and remember I told you to prepare him.” Mycroft was scrutinising him in a most unpleasant way.

“Yes, yes. You know everything better, you’re the smart one...”

“I am and you know why?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Because I’ve never made the mistake of taking to the goldfish. They are beneath us, Sherlock, in every way and under all circumstances. Still we have basic needs. Our body demands some sort of attention from time to time and I’m not just talking about holding hands. It is fine to use the goldfish to some extent to meet certain needs but of course without getting emotionally involved.”

Sherlock needed a moment to understand what his brother was on about. “Sorry, what? You are telling me you have… sexual… needs and have… sex with usual people? People you otherwise despise?”

“Sometimes. But only in a very limited way.”

Sherlock gaped at him. He just couldn’t imagine his cold, calculating brother indulging in sexual acts with whomever. And how did these people have to feel, getting used for his satisfaction and then sent away as if they had brought him his dinner or cut his hair? Because he highly doubted that Mycroft reciprocated their attention. Or perhaps he did… But he didn’t cuddle with anyone for sure. And why were they talking about this at all?!

Mycroft sighed again. “I can see all your pathetic little preconceptions. In fact I find it annoying enough to bother with them. Which brings us to the point. I always thought that you were completely averse to this kind of thing. I did interrogate Miss Adler to find out if you had any physical contact with her after her plane landed in California as I’d gotten suspicious about your involvement with her.”

“What? You know that I saved her?”

“Oh, Sherlock. You’re leaving the country to make sure she keeps her pathetic head on her skinny shoulders? Of course I know it. And she told me that you hadn’t even wanted to... kiss her.” He grimaced at the last words.

“Of course not,” Sherlock mumbled. “I’m gay if you must know. A gay virgin. She was just a fascinating puzzle.” Where was she now? Come to think about it – he had never heard from her again… Not once had his phone moaned in this annoying way. Had Mycroft let her go after his ‘interrogation’? Or had Sherlock saved her from getting beheaded in Karachi just for her to find her end in a dark street or the desert? And why had Mycroft bothered to fly to the USA just to ask her about this? Damn, his brother was really a control freak...

“I am gay as well, as you might have figured out. Why are you smirking?”

“Nothing. Go on.” With what, exactly? And he understood it even before his brother opened his mouth again and he almost slid off the couch in shock.

Mycroft regarded him calmly. “So you do have desires, deeply hidden, and bonding with humans as of late has brought them to light, and it makes you want to get involved with someone beneath you. Even if the little doctor had agreed – I couldn’t have had this. As it is, you won’t get him anyway but before you throw yourself at the next meaningless human, like your Inspector Lestrade, I rather offer you my assistance.”

“Your what?” Had he landed in a parallel universe? Had he hit his head on his way home? His brother was offering…

“We can have physical contact and find numerous ways to reach sexual satisfaction. In fact it would be most convenient for me and I can assure you that it will be in your interest as well.”

“This conversation is not happening. You’re my _brother_ , Mycroft. It’s incest, it’s forbidden, it’s...”

“Ah, forget about that. The laws and morals of the goldfish are of no interest to us. You have never cared about them anyway. There is hardly a law you haven’t broken already. And of course we will make sure nobody gets to know about this as I do want to avoid having to get rid of blackmailers or other people who find it necessary to interfere as it only causes hassle. It will solely happen in my house even though I am quite sure that tonight it will be safe to have sex here. Your landlady will stay away for at least another hour, I estimate.”

“But… Why?” This question was too simple, he knew. He didn’t understand this in an all-encompassing way.

The sigh was the deepest one Sherlock had heard from his brother since he had last gotten high. “You are the safest option. I have seen your blood tests. You will be discreet. You are very attractive and I have always admired this plush behind of yours and I can, frankly, hardly wait to lick your rosy little hole and thrust my considerable penis into it until you scream. In pleasure, not pain, naturally.”

Sherlock could do nothing but gape at him at this wanton statement. This wasn’t a parallel universe. This was… There was no explanation for this whatsoever.

“You are in very good shape these days and nicely trained. And so am I, despite your childish weight jokes. I will make sure you will reach the highest climaxes a man is capable of. I will also let you pound my arse if you want this. One step at a time though. We shall start with lending each other a hand so you’ll slowly get used to sexual activities. We might even begin with non-sexual contact as this will be the easiest activity for you and the one you might have thought about doing with your nasty little doctor.” Mycroft stood up. “I suggest we go into your bedroom and lock the door, just in case Mrs Hudson comes back earlier than anticipated.”

Mycroft wanted to, what, really cuddle with him and then exchange hand jobs before they would do what – suck each other off? Then have anal sex? “You want...”

“...an arrangement to our mutual benefit, yes. I am willing to do whatever you find you need. But I will not agree to pain play or pissing.”

“Piss...” Sherlock rubbed his eyes. “Tell me that I’m hallucinating this conversation, Mycroft.”

“Come on. Let’s not waste any more time. My cock is already hard.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened – and then they were magically drawn to the tent in Mycroft's trousers. A large tent… “Oh God...” Mycroft wanted him to touch this… kiss it… and take it up his… He felt like fainting.

“Do not worry. I know how to use it. And now let’s go.” Mycroft gave him an impatient look before leaving the living room without looking back again, obviously convinced that Sherlock would join him instantly.

And after five seconds of standing frozen on the spot, Sherlock followed him.


	2. Not Really Cuddling And Hand Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has followed Mycroft into his bedroom and the boys get tactile.

Sherlock watched his brother taking off his jacket and throwing it over the only chair in his bedroom. Then he proceeded to unbutton his waistcoat.

Mycroft gave him a surprisingly indulgent look. “Will you undress, too, or do you plan to just open your flies so I can reach your cock?”

In fact Sherlock was rather sure that what he _should_ do was fleeing his own flat, screaming and waving his arms. But somehow he wiggled himself out of his jacket instead, letting it drop onto the floor, before his hands started to open the buttons of his shirt.

Mycroft gave him an appreciative look before deftly shrugging off his shirt. God, he had a chest like a bloody bear! Sherlock couldn’t help but stare at all the black fur and the large, pink nipples that were poking out of it.

“The miracle of genes, hm?” Mycroft said, smirking. “You, looking like a smooth baby, and I, well, you see it.” He unzipped his trousers, managing to slide them down over the large bulge, which had not subsided one bit in the meantime. Actually it even seemed to have grown.

How could he have missed this – Mycroft obviously finding him very desirable? And he called himself a detective who could do deductions?! But then – Mycroft had always claimed to be ‘the smart one’ after all. Sherlock would never doubt again that he had every right to do it…

And were they really about to… cuddle and have some sort of sex, and have more of it the more often they met, because Mycroft was clearly planning to make this a long-term agreement? He had never wanted to have sex. No, not even with John. But then… He did recall some glances at the doctor’s pert little backside when he had been bending over on a crime scene… Perhaps Mycroft was not that wrong about this. And now his brother turned to take off his socks – and when had he lost his pants?! – and presented his own very attractive behind. And in opposite to John, he had two very long, very trained legs attached to it… Sherlock silently apologised for every stupid jibe at his brother’s alleged necessity for having a diet.

And now Mycroft turned again and Sherlock almost fainted at the sight of a very long, very thick penis, complete with a massive, shiny crown and a huge sack swinging between his thighs. Had he just licked his lips? Judging by Mycroft's pleased look, he probably indeed had. Would he start to drool now? But dammit… he doubted very much that John could compete with this… God… Who would have thought that he was a bloody size queen?!

“It’s yours to explore as you wish. I do like to have my balls licked,” Mycroft informed him casually.

Sherlock had to close his eyes for a moment. Never in his life would he have expected to hear his brother talk like this. And when he imagined himself lapping at those hairy, blood-filled testicles…

“Ah, come on. Lie down with me. The bed is big enough for both of us. We’ll start slowly as I told you.” Mycroft sounded uncharacteristically understanding.

And still Sherlock was shivering in fear when he obediently scrambled onto his bed. Mrs Hudson had only changed the sheets this morning.

He winced when his bare shoulder made contact with Mycroft's. The skin was warm and smooth, and he could smell his brother, and nothing about it was unpleasant. He was an attractive man, all icy blue eyes, nicely shaped lips and dimpled chin, and his body was undoubtedly desirable. But God – this was _Mycroft_. Basically everything Sherlock knew, apart from his knowledge about autopsies and how a liver behaved in acid, he knew because he had either been taught by Mycroft directly, like making deductions or driving, or because he had imitated him as soon as he had been able to walk and talk. Sherlock didn’t remember much of his early childhood, which was a bit strange considering the fact that he, like his brother, had an eidetic memory, but he knew that he had seriously admired his big brother. He recalled glimpses of beautiful days at the beach, he, Mycroft, their parents and his beloved dog Redbeard. He could see himself wrapping his arms around chubby teenage Mycroft's neck, getting lifted up by his admired sibling. And now he was about to have sex with him?!

“I’d suggest you stop thinking now, Sherlock. You know I do appreciate a bright mind and I like to use mine but right now, it is not exactly convenient.” And with this Mycroft slung his arm around his neck and pulled him in.

Stiff like a very frightened corpse, Sherlock was lying in the expected but nonetheless shocking embrace, his face pressed against Mycroft's warm chest. He could feel his brother's heart beat against his body. This was so surreal. And then he yelped when a large hand was put onto his naked bum and squeezed it none-too gently.

“Your arse is so hot that it should be forbidden,” Mycroft purred, letting his other hand land on it as well, and then one long finger dipped into the crack and teased Sherlock's hole, and he made a strangled noise when all his blood rushed southwards and his cock basically sprung up against his brother’s thigh. “Ooh, responsive, little brother.”

“It _is_ , you know…” Sherlock rasped out, trying to find a more comfortable position and inevitably rubbing his hard cock against Mycroft's leg, which made him groan once more.

“Is what?” Mycroft's breath was hot against his forehead.

“Forbidden…” Not his actual bottom of course but Mycroft doing such _[heavenly]_ things to it.

“And still you are enjoying it,” Mycroft chuckled, and his finger provokingly rubbed his opening.

Sherlock could feel his cock starting to drip. Not much sense in denying this. He had never paid attention to his penis besides for peeing with it. He had never even jacked off as he had found it beneath him, and when the sheets had been sticky in the morning sometimes, he had been seriously appalled, feeling betrayed by his body. But it looked as if he was not that asexual after all and perhaps his body was not just transport in the end… Having his hole poked at felt just too good...

He was surprised when Mycroft stopped tormenting him and rolled him to the side. “I promised to start with some non-sexual contact. Let’s do that first then.” And with this he bent over and nibbled at Sherlock's neck and it felt decidedly not non-sexual as Sherlock’s member got even harder. “Ah, a very erogenous zone there,” Mycroft stated. “I am determined to find them all.”

Actually Sherlock had the strange feeling his entire _body_ was such a zone… Because when Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and simply snuggled against him, he felt as if was close to coming.

Of course Mycroft didn’t miss that. “We might take the edge of this before you gather enough courage to touch me, hm?” And with this he put his long-fingered hand around Sherlock's cock and fiercely masturbated him, and it took about six strokes until Sherlock basically exploded all over his hand and himself, and he screeched so loudly that Mycroft probably suffered lasting damage to his hearing.

But Mycroft was not appalled at all. “Holy moly, Sherlock. That was impressive.” His hand slid through the mess and he licked it off his fingers.

Sherlock, half blinded by his strong climax, could hardly believe his blurred sight. His cock didn’t either obviously as it elicited another small spurt of come.

Mycroft laughed and scooped up some more of the semen and coated his own, dark-red cock with it. “Come on. Just get your hand on it.”

Sherlock had no idea what he was doing here and why but he caught himself grabbing Mycroft's sticky cock with a shivering hand.

“You can touch it harder. Let me show you.” And Mycroft covered his hand with his own, guiding it, and then they were masturbating him together until he made a very weird, quiet noise and climaxed as well.

They both slumped into the pillows, Sherlock finally letting go, the tension leaving his body, and they lay beside each other for a moment.

Then Mycroft smacked his thigh. “That was a very promising start. We shall see when we both find time next and then meet up in my house to go on with this. Agreed?”

There were about three million reasons why this was a very bad idea. But still Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” And then he went completely stiff when Mycroft bent over and kissed him on the lips. It was not much more than a short peck but when Mycroft had quickly refreshed himself in the bathroom and left, his umbrella swinging at his arm, Sherlock, tucked in his blanket, could still feel his brother's hand around his cock, at his hole, his entire body pressed against his, but what followed him into his slumber most vividly was the feeling of this kiss.


	3. Oral Pleasures

Sherlock yawned and stretched his arms. He had slept very well. But… why was the blanket sticking to him? And why did the sheets feel so… He shot up, recalling what had happened the night before. How he and Mycroft… And how he had only slumped into the pillows and not even bothered showering. His bladder was full. And then he heard Mrs Hudson rummaging in the downstairs flat. Oh no… He jumped out of the bed and hastily removed the linen that his landlady had only applied a day ago. A day that felt like ages ago… His life seemed to have been divided in two – not before and after John’s wedding but before and after Mycroft suggesting to have sex… and actually doing it… He ran to the bathroom and stuffed the soiled sheets into the washing machine and then peed (and couldn’t help but recalling Mycroft saying, ‘No pissing’). He didn't have time to shower now as he knew that Mrs Hudson would be here in about five minutes. But he scrubbed his genitals and washed his armpits and upper body, applied deodorant and brushed his teeth and then he ran back to the bedroom to get the bed made again.

Of course he didn't make it. When he was struggling with the darn bed sheet, Mrs Hudson chirped her annoying ‘Uuh-uuh!’ and then stopped dead. “Oh. Oh. One of these nights...”

Sherlock blushed heavily. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, dear, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Since you don’t take care of your needs, it has to erupt from time to time.”

Sherlock tried not to think of the impressive eruption he had indeed managed under Mycroft's ministrations. “I do not wish to talk about this,” he said, with dignity.

“Of course not, dear. Tea is ready. And I made ginger nuts for you this morning.”

Her tone sounded… pitying? Why would she pity him? He turned to her and saw her sympathetic face. “What?”

“Oh Sherlock. It must be so hard for you. John told me about the baby.”

Oh. The wedding. John about to become a father. Would he ever go chasing criminals with him again? Would he see him at all anymore? When Sherlock had left the wedding yesterday, these questions had been simmering under the surface and it had made him feel kind of down. But now… Somehow it didn’t seem to be that important anymore. And why? Because he’d had some sort of weird sex with his own brother and would most definitely do a lot more with him? He suddenly felt rather weak in the knees.

“My dear boy! Come, let’s get you into your chair and then you’ll get a nice hot cup of tea.”

Sherlock nodded. Should she think that he was disturbed because of John and his new family. He would definitely never tell her about this unexpected change in his so far non-existent sex life. He did remember very well what Mycroft had said about people finding out and causing him hassle because… he had to make them disappear? Would his brother really do that?

Sherlock thought about if for a moment before he nodded to himself. Oh yes. Without a doubt… And without even flinching.

When he sipped at his strong tea, he wondered if he should have been feeling more appalled by that image. He couldn’t find it in himself to do so though.

*****

He was distracted by work, which he welcomed heartily, soon after he had finished his breakfast. And when he had just solved another case two hours later, he received a text from Mycroft.

_Did you sleep well, little brother? MH_

Was this line secure? Stupid question. Of course it was. And Mycroft's words were harmless enough.

_I did. And you? SH_

What an awkward situation this was…

_Splendidly. As a matter of fact, I will be unexpectedly free tonight. Would you like to pay me a visit? MH_

Sherlock's throat got dry. Why were they doing this? What kind of people indulged in such… things? He should tell Mycroft to leave him alone. Find a new John if necessary. For solving cases, nothing else! He had been living like a monk, well, a monk with a drug habit, for decades. He could do it again. Without the drug habit, preferably. He could learn to embroider pillows. Sing in a nightclub. Collect for the poor. Go to Africa and build wells. Everything but meeting his brother for having sex!

 _Yes. SH_ typed his fingers as if they had their own will.

So much for this…

_Excellent. 8? MH_

_Okay. SH_

_I will be expecting you. MH_

Sherlock buried his face in his hands.

*****

When Sherlock arrived at Mycroft's house, which was built on the middle of a large property and surrounded by thick bushes and high trees and was about two-hundred metres away from the next house (it had belonged to Uncle Rudy and he had liked his privacy as much as Mycroft did), he didn't feel disturbed and anxious anymore. He had made a decision. He would see this as an experiment! Experiences and experimentation. This was good. Safe grounds. He should have found out what all the hassle was about when it came to sex long ago. He had never understood people who killed because of jealousy or in revenge when their partners had left them. It had only caused him rolling his eyes as it had seemed so… dull. But in fact he had not been in the position to judge those people. But that would change now. He would learn everything about (gay) sex now and it would help him becoming a better detective!

Feeling strong and aloof, he rang the doorbell. It was two minutes before eight.

He didn't have to wait longer than a minute before the door was opened up.

“Good evening, dear brother,” Mycroft smirked.

Sherlock had to hold onto the door frame. Mycroft had not put on one of his trademark three-piece-suits that cost more than Sherlock earned with his cases in a year. Instead he was wearing a dark-red silky robe, slippers and nothing else. He hadn’t even bothered with tying the belt. His tall, hairy body was on full display, complete with the gargantuan set of cock and balls swinging freely, and either the cool breeze, Sherlock's stare or the prospect of having sex made the cut cock rise as if someone was pulling at its strings.

“You can come in now,” Mycroft said and he sounded rather amused. “Or would you like to turn and go home, forgetting about our agreement?”

Was there a hint of insecurity in his voice at the last words? Was it a calculated provocation or did he simply want to give him a way out? It didn't exactly matter though. Sherlock shot through the door, closing it with his heel, and he knew he had a) lied to himself as this might be new and indeed an experiment of sorts but none of the kind he was used to doing and b) there was no way back now anymore. He was in this, whatever it was, and it would be _[scary/overwhelming/ terrifying/hot/scandalous]_ great! He grinned at Mycroft, vibrating with energy.

“A drink to relax?” Mycroft took a glass from the table next to the door.

“Oh God yes.” Sherlock ripped it out of his hand and downed the twenty year-old single malt whiskey in one go.

*****

Sherlock was shivering when he sat down on the bed which already contained a fully naked Mycroft. So was he – naked. And shivering, and what else was new.

Mycroft handed him a pillow to stuff behind his head. “Comfortable?”

“Yes. What… what are you planning to do now?”

That brought him a smirk. “Close your eyes and let big brother do whatever he wants.”

That was basically the foundation of this… arrangement, wasn’t it? Mycroft doing what he wanted with him and he, the prissy virgin, completely out of his depth more than ever before in his life, was letting him as if he had lost his free will. But he _had_ come here. And didn’t he know that Mycroft wouldn’t hurt him? He felt nervous and scared and weird but it wouldn’t be bad. It wouldn’t, would it?

And then Mycroft was all over him with his lips, his hands and his entire body and Sherlock knew that there was nothing else to do than letting it happen.

The next hour was one Sherlock would simultaneously never forget and never comprehend. It was torture. It was bliss. It was hell. And heaven. And most of all it was Mycroft caressing him in ways he hadn’t even imagined to be possible while murmuring words of praise for his smooth skin, his ‘luscious nipples’, his ‘velvety balls’ and his ‘delicious cock’. It was a steady stream of words and how did he even manage talking while at the same time he was nibbling and lapping at every body part Sherlock had to offer? Damn, at one point he even suckled his toes! Right after he had sucked his cock, stopping as soon as Sherlock came close to climaxing. One time he even firmly squeezed his glans to shush him away from the edge. And he just grinned when Sherlock protested, his voice high-pitched and whiny and how could he even sound like this...

And then his arse found itself up in the air, a pillow was stuffed under it and a hot tongue started licking his hole, and Sherlock could feel his orgasm crash through his system when it slipped inside of him after a few minutes of this exquisite torture. Mycroft had foreseen this and moved with the speed of light to catch his massive eruption with his mouth, sucking him dry mercilessly while Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe in and out with his brain so dizzy that Anderson would have beaten him at doing deductions. And was it New Year’s Eve? He could have sworn that there was a firework happening behind his eyelids.

The pillow was removed and then Mycroft was lying next to him. “Good, eh?”

Sherlock turned his face to him and his mouth opened but nothing came out. He was surprised to not see any mockery in Mycroft's eyes at his desolate condition. “Uh,” he eventually made, intelligently.

Mycroft even chuckled. “You’ll get used to it, believe me, little brother.”

Sherlock laughed and it sounded a bit hysterical. He should get used to the man who rightfully called him ‘little brother’ wringing or sucking and certainly very soon fucking the living daylights out of him? He wasn’t even sure how many more of these brain-cell-burning orgasms he would survive. Even if his heart didn’t give up at this overload – would he end up like any common goldfish, unable to think and with nothing but sex on his mind? Would he forfeit his abilities to think, hear, speak and see at the next total shutdown of his brain?

And still…

He would come back for more. This was just too amazing...

But now Mycroft would expect him to reciprocate his efforts. Would he really be able to lick his brother’s… hole? Suck this anaconda of a cock? And he could not even lift a finger right now. His head seemed to weigh twenty pounds.

To his surprise, Mycroft sat up and left the bed. “I’ve prepared some sandwiches. You will rest and eat something and then you’ll get some dessert.”

Sherlock watched him leave the room and he was pretty sure that his brother had not spoken about ice cream.

*****

Coughing, spluttering and close to crying, Sherlock buried his face in the blanket.

“Ah, come on. This is normal for the first time. I told you not to take too much of it.”

Yes. Mycroft had said that. But Sherlock had wanted to prove that he could do it. Stupid. The large thing had almost suffocated him when he had just plunged himself onto it and then hit the back of his throat when he had tried to breathe around it. He had been very close to puking over his brother! This was the most embarrassing moment of his entire life...

He winced when he felt a hand on his neck. It was warm and soothing. “Come, get up and just use your hand on me. Or watch me getting off myself.”

No! He would not do that! He raised his head and glowered at his brother. “I can do it. Lie down again!”

Mycroft looked at him with a strange expression. Then he nodded. “Just the head. I love it being suckled on.”

Somehow Sherlock didn’t like these pieces of information. They proved that Mycroft had done this before. With other people! It was stupid of course. He was the virgin, not Mycroft. Still he didn’t want to hear anything about his experiences. He would do it better than anyone before him. He was Sherlock Holmes. He had to be able to suck a cock, no matter how big it was! He would practice. There were dildos. Vegetables. His own hand, whatever. But right now it was Mycroft's cock that needed to be entertained, in whatever limited way he was capable of so far.

So he closed his lips around the pink mushroom head carefully and slowly started to suck it. The taste was like nothing he had ever tasted before. Musky and earthy, sweet and bitter. He winced when some weird fluid dribbled onto his tongue. But this was good. Mycroft was enjoying this. Well, it was easy to deduce that as he also moaned.

“Good boy,” Mycroft mumbled, his hand fumbling with Sherlock's ear.

“Not your dog,” grumbled Sherlock around the silky thing in his mouth.

It took Mycroft a moment to figure out what he had said but then he laughed. “Oh, you are. My obedient little dog. Lick your master, come on.”

Sherlock realised that he found it strangely appealing to be called a little dog. Mycroft had sounded rather fond. He eagerly suckled on the sticky tip some more, and slowly he let some more of the thick appendage glide into his throat.

Mycroft moaned again. “That’s great, Sherlock… You’re doing this so well...”

Sherlock, encouraged, sucked harder and dared take him deeper, and he thought he might not have to take to doing this with zucchinis after all.

“Put your hand around the base,” Mycroft told him and Sherlock quickly let his right hand join into the worshipping.

It made getting Mycroft off much easier and it was over soon. Mycroft’s breathing increased considerably and about two minutes later, he told Sherlock to pull away.

Recalling his struggles with his gag reflex, Sherlock reluctantly let go and watched in awe how Mycroft’s now dark red cock erupted a few times most impressively over his brother’s stomach. A drop even hit his long nose, and Sherlock couldn’t help but giggle.

Mycroft glowered at him for a moment before he felt the reason for Sherlock's amusement and grinned while wiping it off with his fingers. “That was amazing even though you could have paid more attention to my balls. You think next time you will be able to lick my arsehole?”

Sherlock shuddered at the choice of words. And the image. Could he do this? It made him feel a bit queasy. Tingling. Aroused. “Yes.”

“Great. Let’s have a shower together now.” He seemed to want to add something but then he just got up and led the way to the bathroom.

They washed each other and the water was hot and the body wash smelled delicious. And when his hair was dry and he was dressed again, Mycroft brought him to the door.

For a moment they just looked at each other and Sherlock felt a bit… weird. Well, of course he was. There were plenty of reasons for feeling weird. He just couldn’t figure out the exact reason why he was feeling like this right in this moment.

“I will let you know when I have time,” Mycroft eventually said.

Sherlock nodded. “Good.” He would probably be available, whenever Mycroft wanted to see him. There was no John waiting for him at home. The cases were rare. He could have stayed… The thought hit him without warning. Would he like this? Sleep next to his brother? Perhaps not tonight. It was too soon. Too soon? What did he think they were doing here – developing a lovey-dovey relationship? Was he completely mad? This was about sex, nothing else. Good sex. Well, at least for him...

And then Mycroft pulled him in rather roughly and kissed him, and this time it was not a short peck but there were tongues and teeth and urgency, and Sherlock was breathless when Mycroft let him go.

“Good night, little brother.” There was a smile in his eyes and his voice.

“Good night, big brother.” Sherlock’s voice was shivery.

And when he walked away from his brother’s house, he felt new and strange and shaken – and a tiny bit lost.


	4. An Unexpected Visitor

_Hey, how are you? Why don’t you answer my texts? Everything all right? Greetings from Mary! JW_

Sherlock stared at the message. He had not even noticed any other texts. He had been too busy. Busy being with Mycroft. Thinking about Mycroft. He scrolled through his messenger app and yes, he had missed a few texts, not only from John. Ignoring Molly’s concerned questions about his well-being and Lestrade’s more subtle and somehow touching attempts at cheering him up with bad jokes, he answered his ex-flatmate. He had come home after his not-date with Mycroft, sitting in his chair for a while, before the chirping of his phone had pulled him out of his thoughts. He forced himself to focus on John. Who was currently enjoying his honeymoon.

_Everything fine here. How is the sex holiday? SH_

_Sherlock! What an expression! Sexy they are, though. You are really okay? JW_

Yes. Yes, he was. He had hardly thought about John lately. And he wouldn’t start feeling strangely abandoned because Mycroft had not asked him to stay the night. He had other things to do after all. Time to focus on his work again. Certainly Lestrade or Dimmock would have something for him soon.

He almost dropped the phone when another text came in. And it was not from John.

_I’m lying on my bed now. Pulling at my balls. Imagine you were licking them. MH_

Sherlock swallowed. He wanted to do this. Right now. Before he had the chance to answer, Mycroft texted him again.

_I want to do teabagging with you. MH_

What the hell did this mean? Mycroft wanted to do what, feed him with tea bags? Put them into his hole or what? But not when they were still hot, surely?

He literally shrieked when his phone signalised a call. But it was just John again. He hurried to reject it and earned another message within seconds.

_Sherlock, I’m worried about you! Call me back! JW_

_I’m busy, John. And, as I told you, totally fine. Talk later. My regards to Mary. SH_

He knew this text hadn’t sounded overly friendly and would not really placate John. But at least his friend let it rest after a last text.

 _Fine. Have it your way. Thinking of you, both of us. Maybe all three of us_ 😊 _JW_

Sherlock sighed at the emoji. John was really childish sometimes. And unborn children could not think. Even most fully grown humans couldn’t think.

_Are you there? Brother mine? MH_

Somehow Sherlock could sense an emphasize on the last word. He hastily replied.

_I am. Even though I have to admit I don’t know what you were just referring to. SH_

It was better than to fake knowing what he meant. Of course he could just google it. Asking John would have probably not been a good idea.

 _Oh, I see. I forgot how innocent you are. Look it up. You will like it._ 😊 _MH_

Damn, Mycroft was sending smileys, too?! And now Sherlock did google the expression in question. And almost dropped his phone again. My God… This looked ghastly! Or rather… hot… Something he definitely could imagine doing. Definitely giving his balls to Mycroft like this. He assumed Mycroft would love to suckle at his testicles from beneath of him. But the other way around…He had seen his brother’s balls. They were hairy, and huge.

_You will not suffocate me, will you? SH_

_Oh Sherlock. Never. And I think I did not explicitly say that so far: nothing will ever happen without your full consent. I know I was very straightforward at the start. But you can always say no. MH_

Sherlock had never doubted this. But he doubted somehow that he would ever _want_ to say no to anything Mycroft suggested, and that did scare him a tiny bit. But he would draw some lines. He would not let his brother viciously spank him or torture him or anything like this. But actually Mycroft had ruled this out from the start, along with what strange people called ‘watersports’. But everything else… No. Sherlock couldn’t hear himself saying no. And it was disturbing...

_I trust you. SH_

His fingers had typed this text on their own. His brain didn’t seem to have much of a say in his actions anymore. This was also pretty disturbing actually.

_That is good. Very good. And now have a good night. See you soon. MH_

_Yes. For sure. Good night. SH_

He went to bed after this strangely comforting conversation, and he didn’t feel abandoned anymore. He felt… cared for? It was a good feeling. He just shouldn’t forget that he might never read too much into his brother’s words. Not that he even would. He wasn’t in love or anything. No way. Not at all. Or was he…? He hastily shook this thought off and closed the door of his bedroom behind him even though there was nobody there to see him.

*

And in his house in North London, Mycroft Holmes was lying on his bed, the phone still in his hand, thinking of his little brother, the man he loved with all his deeply hidden heart.

*****

The next morning, Sherlock woke up, covered in sweat, breathing hard and being hard, from a dream in which his brother, wearing one of his three-piece-suits and holding his umbrella, had sucked his cock – only to turn into a nastily grinning wolf that devoured him. Staring at the tent in his sleep shorts, Sherlock was not surprised but terrified nonetheless. He had never had sex dreams before. Well, he had never had _sex_ before… Now his libido had been rudely woken up and was being played with by very deft hands (and lips) and this was the embarrassing (yes, and arousing) result.

He freed his throbbing cock and let it poke out of his blue shorts. He stared at the suddenly so lively pink thing with the head that seemed to scream ‘suck me’ (but as flexible as he was, he would not be able to do this and why did he even think about that?!) and he inevitably imagined Mycroft lapping over the shiny skin and winking at him, and a moment later a few impressive eruptions of semen spurted out of his untouched member, making him staring at his volcano-cock in horror and fascination. One thing was sure – Mycroft would never have a problem with not being able to make him climax…

Sherlock briefly wondered what Mycroft would say to him coming by just thinking of having sex with him and decided that he would keep this delicate piece of information to himself. Sighing, he cleaned himself up with a tissue and then dragged himself to his bathroom for a thorough shower. He had not even started the day and was already feeling exhausted. And a teensy bit scared of what this day might bring on that new front.

*****

It brought nothing. He did not hear from his brother the entire day. He told himself not to be silly; Mycroft was a very busy man after all and they could hardly meet for sex every day now. And he had been living without any kind of sexual activity for all his life and should really not be addicted to it after these two encounters. And in the end – Mycroft had always told him to not get involved indeed. The last thing his brother could want was to get him involved with _him_ now… This was still Mycroft, Mr _‘Caring Is Not An Advantage’_ and _‘No Sentiment!’_.

Still… Still he felt strangely neglected and he could have slapped himself for it. Greedily, he accepted a case offered by an elderly woman. It was just about her neighbour and his scary friends with whom she supposed he was producing a bomb. In fact, they were only planning a party together and it might have been the stupidest case of his career, but it provided a distraction from waiting for a text that did not come. Sherlock's fingers were itching to contact his brother himself, but he was too smart to do that. If he annoyed Mycroft, his brother might decide that he was too much of a bother. And damn – he did not want to risk that. This whole affair might be insane and dangerous and completely out of character for him but he wanted more. After all he had always wanted more when he had discovered something he found interesting or exciting even. And honestly, he had not experienced anything this exciting in his life before. Of course he could have had sex before. There had been more than enough offers, at least from people who did not know him. But he wouldn’t have touched them, let alone allowed them to touch him. But Mycroft…

At this point he hurried to St. Bart’s for an experiment he had wanted to do for a long time. Unfortunately it included meeting Molly, who kept asking him if he was okay and told him about her wonderful life with her fiancé – the wannabe Sherlock. Her eyes were clearly saying that she would drop the poor man in an instant if he just said the word. A word he would never say to her… It was awkward and unpleasant so he fled as soon as possible to brood at home again, interrupted by beans on toast, munched in the messy kitchen, and two more hardly exciting cases.

And when he had dropped in his chair again, moody and biting on his bottom lip in completely irrational agony, a visitor came by, loudly ringing the doorbell. No, not his brother. It was Detective Inspector Lestrade, bringing a few bottles of beer and a careful smile.

*****

“Graham? What are you doing here?”

The inspector, standing in the door of 221B, grinned and shook his head. “It’s Greg. G.R.E.G. It’s pretty easy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. How could anyone be so obsessed with his own first name? “Fine. _Greg_. What are you doing here, Greg?” Lestrade had never just dropped by. They had never met in Baker Street without a case, or a Christmas party. They had never been alone for years. Hell, they had always only talked on crime scenes or in the Yard before John had come into his life. “It’s a case, no?” Sherlock asked, hopeful.

Greg looked pointedly at the beer in his bag. “I’m finished for today. Just thought I’d come over, spend some time with my… pal.”

Sherlock stared at him, aghast. He was Lestrade’s pal? What did that even mean? Would Lestrade expect him to laugh about stupid jokes? Do men’s talk about who could piss the farthest? Had the DI, never the brightest bulb in the box to begin with, gone completely mad now?

The inspector sighed. “I met John quite a few times when you were… away.” Meaning (not) dead. “Went to the pub with him.”

“I won’t go to the pub with you!” The sheer thought was horrifying. There would be noise. And ghastly people, laughing and screaming around. Sherlock shuddered.

“I figured. That’s why I’ve brought the beer. Can I perhaps come in and sit down for five minutes? Had a rather long day.”

And still he was here to see Sherlock? The detective felt a bit touched against his will. But also a bit annoyed. “Sure. Sorry.” He stepped back and let his colleague of sorts in. He even took the bag when Lestrade handed it to him to take off his jacket. His shirt was crumpled. His trousers had some stains that looked like he’d had a rather exciting case. And he had not called him?! Well, obviously it had been gory and all but easy to solve for a change.

They went into the living room and Sherlock awkwardly gestured at John’s chair while putting the beer onto the table. John didn’t need it so much anymore. Would he ever again? Sure, they would solve cases with each other again when the doctor came back from his honeymoon. Not often though. He also worked as a doctor in a clinic. There was a baby on the way. Of course Mrs Hudson and Mycroft had been right – it _was_ the end of an era. But since Sherlock had just started a new one with a completely unexpected counterpart, an era of the kind he had never shared with John (even though everybody seemed to have believed it, with the exception of Molly probably), he was pretty fine with this.

Only that Lestrade did not know that of course. Nobody did. Nobody ever would! And so Lestrade had come to keep him company because Sherlock had fled from the sodding wedding…

The DI looked at him with an expression that spoke of barely concealed sympathy.

Sherlock didn't like it. There was not one reason to feel sorry for him. But there was nothing he could have said, and when Lestrade opened the first bottle, he took it even though he still vividly remembered how drunk he had been in the stag night. It had been ghastly. Hell, Lestrade had got them out of prison! After being horridly loud, and Sherlock had been suffering from such a horrible headache! And now he was here to make him drunk?

“Cheers, Sherlock.”

“Cheers.” He drank and grimaced.

“Yeah, I know it’s not really cold anymore. Should we put the rest into the fridge? If there are no heads in it or anything.”

Sherlock couldn’t remember. But he shuddered at the thought of spending more than the demanded five minutes (or some more, fine) with the man. What would they talk about? He couldn’t be bothered with conversation! “What do you want, Greg?”

The policeman chuckled. “Straight to the point, huh? Just see how you’re doing.”

“Why would I not do well? John has married. I like his wife. It’s all good.” He rather growled the last sentence.

Greg tilted his head, and his huge dark eyes were full of affection. “Is it really? I got the feeling at the wedding that...”

“Ah, forget it. I just had enough. Too many boring people.” Sherlock drank hastily.

“Yeah, I get that. But… perhaps you need someone. Maybe someone boring, yes. Probably everybody is compared to you. But you can’t fool me – you’re missing John. And if you ask me, which you don’t; I’m well aware of it but I’ll tell you nonetheless: you’re missing out on a lot, living like the only detective monk in the world.”

Sherlock glowered at him. He was not even sure that this was true. Who knew what happened in convents? And if the monks murdered each other, they would probably not go to the police but ask one of the cleverer monks to solve the case. And why was he pondering about monks now?! “I don’t think so,” he lamely retorted, and his fingers were clamping around the slippery bottle of beer.

“Ah, but I do have more life experience in this field. You need someone, Sherlock.”

Lestrade gave him a knowing look and suddenly Sherlock shuddered. He was not about to offer Sherlock his ‘assistance’ now, was he?

The DI seemed to sense his thoughts and grinned. “Ah, don’t worry, boy, I’m not volunteering. I just like women and even if I fancied men – you’re like a little brother to me.”

Sherlock almost burst out laughing but with all the willpower he could muster, he forced the howling back. He lifted the bottle to drink but as soon as his lips closed around the damn thing, he had to think of Mycroft, or rather a certain part of Mycroft which he’d had in his mouth, and he blushed and then coughed when a bit of beer dribbled into his throat. Great…

Lestrade chuckled. “You should have used a glass, posh boy. Not used to drink from the bottle, huh?”

“I do not drink beer anyway. And I don’t want to date anyone, Glen!” As he already dated someone, only that these were not exactly dates and why had Mycroft not asked him to come over so he wouldn’t have to have this conversation now?!

The grey-haired man raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, I get it. I really didn’t mean to annoy you, Sherlock. It’s totally your life and if you’re happier without any of us idiots in it, it is absolutely fine.”

“Goldfish,” Sherlock mumbled. When Lestrade gave him a confused look, he added, “My brother calls you people goldfish.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” Lestrade shook his head, grinning. “Smart man, your brother. Shame you don’t get along better with him. He’s like you,” he explained when he saw Sherlock blush. “You could have conversations with each other us mortals would never be able to follow.”

“That’s pretty easy,” Sherlock mumbled.

Lestrade laughed. “Yes. He likes you very much, Sherlock,” he said then, serious again. “I saw him next to a few hospital beds when you were dead to the world. Often enough almost dead for real. He was worried to bits. And when you woke up, you snarled at him and he snarled back, but I know how relieved he was, every time.”

Sherlock swallowed. Yes. He had never been exactly nice to Mycroft. He couldn’t even really say why. The age gap? Feeling left behind when Mycroft had left home? Mycroft lording it over him with all his accomplishments and power? Them being so different despite sharing the same gigantic intelligence? All of this and more, he guessed. And Mycroft had still always been there when he had needed him. Also when he had not.

“He loves you, you know,” Lestrade added.

Sherlock blushed furiously but of course the DI had meant it in a harmless, brotherly way. And of course Mycroft did not love him in any other one. They just had sex. He had told Sherlock how pretty he was. He had been understanding and tender. Damn… Was this possible?

“Sherlock?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, nothing, you just looked a bit shocked.” Lestrade gave him a wry grin. “It can’t really surprise you that Mycroft cares about you.”

“No,” Sherlock mumbled. What if he did more than this? What if Sherlock did it, too? He did love his brother in a distant, more or less normal way; he had always known that. Mycroft had driven him mad all his life but yes, he had loved him as a brother even though he would have rather bitten off his tongue than tell him. And what if he was about to love him in another way? Mycroft, the sentiment-despiser – how would he react to this? But… He had not told Sherlock that sentiment was a no-go between them. One should have expected he’d do this. He had not. He had only said that he shouldn’t get emotionally involved with any goldfish. There had been no conditions for their sexual exploration other than keeping it to themselves. If Mycroft had been really averse to Sherlock possibly falling in love with him, wouldn’t he have explicitly told him that this was out of the question? But perhaps he just thought it was impossible that this could ever happen. And Sherlock had no idea if it was happening or not. He knew nothing right now!

It was too much, too soon, too scary, too complicated. But Sherlock knew he would be looking for clues when they met next. If they met like this again. Perhaps Mycroft had already changed his mind. Perhaps Sherlock was too clumsy and inexperienced for him? Sherlock would not be happy about this. He wanted to have more sex with his brother. And perhaps he just wanted to spend more time with him. Getting to know him. Was this being in love?

He winced when Lestrade patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, mate; I didn’t think my visit would disturb you so much.”

The older man looked pretty sad and Sherlock shook his head. “No. It was fine. Good beer.”

Greg grinned with a shake of his head. “I’ll leave the other bottles with you. I’ll find out myself. And don’t you think I want you to change. You’re great as you are. Just want you to be happy.”

“I am, Gus, I mean Greg.”

“Well, that’s all that matters. See you soon.” Lestrade squeezed his shoulder and then he left.

Sherlock stayed in his chair, silent and lost in his thoughts until it was time to drag himself to bed. He had just lain down when his phone signalised a text, and he eagerly grabbed it.

*****

A few minutes ago, in his lonely house, Mycroft Holmes had sipped at his whiskey. He had been listening to Sherlock's conversation with Lestrade. He still had cameras outside of 221B and listening devices in the flat. For safety. Okay, yes, maybe also because he liked to be in control. But mainly for safety. It was bad enough that John Watson had married a woman with a dubious past – not even Mycroft's agents had found out who she really was. So far he was giving her the benefit of the doubt and had refrained from having a talk with her – it wasn’t as if Sherlock saw her that often at all. Should she ever try to harm him, Mycroft would end her. But it seemed that she was quite happy about the life she was leading with John Watson and it had separated the doctor and Sherlock a bit. He couldn’t have said that he was exactly unhappy about that…

Anyway. Lestrade had given Sherlock something to think. It was hard to say what Sherlock _was_ thinking about it though. He had seemed a bit disturbed. Which was not good. But then – he had just said that he was happy and it hadn’t sounded like a lie.

He had been holding his phone in his hand about ten times. His fingers had been itching to ask Sherlock to come over. But he had not done it. It would have probably been too much. Tomorrow they could meet again. He couldn’t seem so needy. Hadn’t he just told Sherlock that he shouldn’t have gotten involved? How could he now appear as if he wanted more from Sherlock than having sex? Which he did. Oh yes, he did even though the thought that this could possibly happen with all the complications that relationships inevitably brought with them did disturb him. Would this all end up with his heart getting broken? As he could not say what Sherlock was really feeling for him, if he knew it himself at all? Well, as he had told Sherlock – _all lives end. All hearts are broken._

And now he texted him, eager to have some sort of contact with him.

_Good night, little brother. Hope to see you tomorrow. MH_

The reply came at once.

_Good night, brother mine. That would be great. SH_

Mycroft caught himself smiling at his phone. Silly. It was silly to be in love. But perhaps sometimes even the smartest man was allowed to be a bit silly. He just had to face the possibility that Sherlock didn’t love him back.


	5. Rimming Big Brother

Sherlock hoped that he wasn’t actually drooling. It could very well be though. He couldn’t turn his look away from his brother when he stumbled into the house like a, well, stumblebum.

No three-piece-suit, again. No wantonly opened robe, either. Instead a very slim-fitting, black shirt – and blue jeans. Very, very slim ones. God. His brother had legs like a gazelle. They simply didn’t end. Very dapper, those jeans. Tasty. And there was this bulge behind his zip. Sherlock wanted to mouth at it. Unzip those horridly sexy jeans to watch this huge thing jump out of them.

And then his head snapped up when he realised that his brother was watching him while he was ogling him. The expression in Mycroft's blue eyes was amused. Also… flattered. Yeah. It was a big difference between making (unjustified and rather silly) weight jokes and gawping at him as if he was his last meal…

“Do put your tongue back into your mouth and come in, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled, his blue eyes sparkling. “Hungry?”

“Yes. I want to eat your arse.” Had he really said this? He blushed furiously. “I mean…” He wasn’t even sure if he was able to return the favour that Mycroft had done him. Of course, Mycroft was a very clean man. Highly obsessed with his personal hygiene. In fact he smelled like body wash and shaving foam and some decent deodorant. Certainly his rear end was squeaky clean, too. But this was so… intimate…

Mycroft was watching him closely while he was shrugging off his coat, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Better not today,” he said then, leading the way.

“I want to,” Sherlock insisted, following him with heavy steps.

“But I don’t think you can.”

Did he sound… sad? Nonsense. He just knew everything better, as usual. “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do!”

“God forbid. The great Sherlock Holmes knows best.”

“I do!” Sherlock flared. “You did it for me and I will do it for you. And I’ll do it better.”

Mycroft stopped and turned around, making Sherlock almost crash into him. “Ah, will you? So you didn’t enjoy it?” This damn raised eyebrow…

Of course he had. He had basically keeled over… And Mycroft could have hardly missed that. “That’s beside the point,” Sherlock said, lamely. “All I’m saying is that just because you are older and more experienced, doesn’t mean you are better at everything.”

“It does, though,” Mycroft smirked, looking infuriatingly smug.

Sherlock stalked past him and raced up the stairs. “We will see!”

“Oh, yes, we will.”

Had he been manipulated? Probably. It was his brother’s favourite thing to do… And he had certainly mastered _this_ art… “I’m not a fucking politician whose strings you can pull,” he informed his brother when he elegantly entered the bedroom.

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “I am missing something here I suppose. But as you wish. And of course you’re not. I’m not fucking with politicians.”

“Only with detectives?” Sherlock felt a smile pulling at his lips when Mycroft grinned and winked at him.

“Only with _consulting_ detectives these days.”

These days… Yes… There had been others. Men, not necessarily detectives, probably. Somehow Sherlock didn't like that. “Stupid goldfish,” he mumbled.

“All of them,” Mycroft agreed while he started unbuttoning his shirt. He sounded rather pleased.

 _Do you love me?_ Sherlock wondered what would happen if he asked him directly as he had no idea how to be sure otherwise. He wouldn’t and couldn’t though, of course. He didn’t want to risk being lectured again about the lack of advantageousness of caring. And even if Mycroft loved him and even though he had not said that Sherlock should refrain from developing sentiments of a new kind for him – that still didn’t mean that his brother wanted to burden their arrangement with utterances of emotion. It was more likely that he would tell him to leave and never come back. And he did not want to risk that. And of course he didn’t even know what he was feeling himself. Stupid complicated sentiments and walking on eggshells. Mycroft had offered him sex, nothing more, nothing less. Period.

And so, instead of asking such an embarrassing question, which he would have probably never gotten over his lips anyway, he hurried to get naked and join his brother on the bed.

*****

It was a strange sight – Mycroft, lying on his back, a pillow under his pert little arse. Yes, he was holding his legs up, giving Sherlock an ‘I dare you’ look and a challenging smile, but still he didn't look only wondrously wanton, sexy as hell and simply edible – he also looked vulnerable.

Sherlock wondered how many men he had asked to do this. Or _told_ , rather.

He winced when Mycroft sighed and said, “You know, it’s quite flattering that you like to watch me spread out for you so much, but it is a bit tiring to hold my legs up without getting a reward so if you please? Just in case you haven’t changed your… Oh…”

So that was how Mycroft could be shut up. And that was how he tasted… Sherlock had tasted his cock already but this was something completely different. It was… salty, and musky and sweet, weirdly enough. He had grabbed Mycroft’s taut balls to get them out of the way, and he could literally feel them swell when he licked and lapped at the wrinkled flesh.

“Oh, yes, Sherlock, that’s it. Lick my arse.”

He would never get over Mycroft talking like this. Was this really the same man who spoke so eloquently with the Queen, the Prime Minister and God knew what other important people? Who suavely lied all day, manipulated people into doing what he wanted them to do, making them shiver from fear or trembling in adoration in the eyes of such smooth coldness? A man who could express total exasperation with one raising of a delicate eyebrow shouldn’t like to tell his little brother to “suck my hole” and “get your tongue into my arse, come on.” But he did, and Sherlock was turned on by it to an extent that made him shudder. His hand was around his prick, stroking himself, and he was harder than he had ever been.

And Mycroft's taste was only adding to his arousal. He loved licking him so intimately, and when he forced his tongue into the quivering canal, aided by his fingers, his brother seemed to totally lose it. He hissed Sherlock’s name with closed eyes, his hand on the back of Sherlock's head, urging him on – and caressing his scalp with his thumb.

“Do you want to fuck me now, brother?” he croaked to Sherlock's surprise.

“Fuck you?”

“You know – that is when you insert your penis into the part of my body you’ve just been licking.”

Smartarse… And yes… Sherlock wanted this. He had not even imagined that Mycroft would really want this to happen even though he had mentioned it at the start – he had rather seen himself on the receiving end only. He got all dizzy at the thought of sinking into his brother’s hot canal, thrusting into him. And then he cried out and came over his own hand.

“So much for this,” Mycroft said dryly.

Sherlock had slumped on the bed, feeling completely boneless and pretty embarrassed. “Sorry…”

Mycroft just chuckled and patted his thigh. “Next time, little brother. We’re in no hurry. We can meet as often as we wish and do it all. Remember the teabagging. Fucking each other. And so much else we will do. Just watch me now.”

And Sherlock raised his head to watch his brother getting off with his own hand within mere moments, spurting all over his hairy stomach. And he darted forward and licked over the wet skin.

“Nasty brother,” Mycroft smirked.

“Ditto…”

“Well. I guess we need a shower. And then we’ll eat something.”

“Fine. Even though I had arse already.”

Mycroft looked at him in awe. “You are really a little pervert, Sherlock.”

It didn’t sound like an insult. And it felt surprisingly pleasant to talk like this. With Mycroft only, of course. “Learning from the best.”

Mycroft wasn’t offended in the least. In fact he looked rather smug. “Obviously. Let’s go.”

And when Sherlock was sitting in the cab home, freshly showered, smelling from Mycroft's deodorant, and sated in more than one way, he felt surprisingly happy. Perhaps it had been the long kiss Mycroft had given him before letting him go. Or the slap he had given him on the arse. Or the fond look they had shared.

Damn. The happiness vanished. There was no doubt anymore – he was deeply and madly in love with his difficult, dominant, sentiment-hating big brother, and nobody had to tell him that this was not good news for him. He could only hope that if Mycroft didn’t return those feelings (and a part of him was sure that he did and another part insisted that it wasn’t possible and that he was an idiot for even considering it), he wouldn’t deduce them. Because there was a high possibility that, in this case, their relationship would be over, and he didn’t even want to imagine that.


	6. Teabagging And Topping Sherlock

It was not easy to concentrate on the latest report of the MI5. Or on silly meetings with morons. On the PM, blathering away. Mycroft had to force himself to even pretend to be interested. Which was something unheard of for Mycroft Holmes. But his thoughts kept returning to last night. To his brother. These thoughts were so much more interesting than the latest terror suspect, let alone anything his jerk of a boss had to tell him.

He was almost sure. Sure that Sherlock returned his feelings. This kiss at the door… Sherlock's look… Amazing, wasn’t it? Sherlock had been behaving towards him as if he was a _persona non grata_ for two decades, and the few times having sex had changed this? But perhaps Sherlock was just shaken by his own desires. Trying to justify them by telling himself that he was in love. No. That didn’t sound like Sherlock at all…

So Mycroft had to face the not-that-slight possibility that his brother liked him the way he liked him. Loved him, actually. And it was a bit scary. He had always been a loner. By choice. Sentiment was not an advantage. It made him vulnerable. Even weak, he supposed. But then, he had been harbouring these feelings long before he had offered having a sexual relationship to his brother. Had longed for him. Longed to possess him, and not just his body.

And then he had taken the chance on getting at least his physical attention as soon as John Watson had more or less disappeared from his life. That Sherlock had called him at the wedding had been the sign he had obviously been waiting for. He had made his move. And it had paid out. He had been allowed to explore his brother’s beautiful body, and he had provided Sherlock the distraction he had certainly needed after having to watch his dear old friend dance into a new life with his brand new wife.

Mycroft had received some delicious sexual attention from his brother and was hopefully about to get more. And to give more. He had never allowed anyone to fuck him – naturally not. But he would have let Sherlock. And he wanted to fuck him so badly...

He could feel his trousers get tight when he realised that he was dying to push inside these impossibly hot arse. Right now. And he wanted Sherlock to push his balls into his mouth. He had told him that they were in no hurry to do it all and that he would do what Sherlock wanted to do but somehow his groin begged to differ right now.

His hand was shivering when he fired off a text.

_Tonight, 7. I’m going to fuck you. MH_

He held his breath as this had been a rather dominant, impolite way to put it – he didn’t have to consult a psychologist (ha, as if he ever) to know that he had done it to hide his feelings. But Sherlock answered after a minute, obviously not feeling put off by his ‘tone’.

_Good. I will be there. SH_

_Excellent. And I want your balls in my mouth first. MH_

His cock was getting harder by the second.

_You shall have your tea bags. SH_

Mycroft, sitting at his desk in the centre of power, laughed out loud, and his PA in the office next to his one gasped as she had never heard this noise before.

*****

It was the bathrobe again. Tied, this time. Sherlock had nothing to stare at apart from the fur above the collar, which was a pity. But he was rather sure that he was about to see a lot more from his brother very soon.

“I thought we’ll have dinner _afterwards_ ,” Mycroft informed him.

Sherlock was so nervous that he wouldn’t have been able to eat anything now if he had been being force-fed. “Okay,” he brought out. He had showered for fifteen minutes, scrubbing himself inside out. His arse was still burning. Probably about to burn some more… But first he would be supposed to take a seat on his brother’s face and dip his balls into his mouth. Why were his hands shivering again?

Mycroft was looking at him with a surprisingly indulgent expression. “If it gets too much, we’ll stop. I’m going to prepare you thoroughly but as I am built rather big, a bit of inconvenience will probably be unavoidable.”

Sherlock had no doubt about that. His arse had not been designed to take something that gigantic. In fact it had not been designed to let anything in at all. “I…,” he cleared his throat, “never had anything… in there.” Why had he not prepared himself for this? He could have ordered some dildos, discreetly.

“Apart from my tongue,” Mycroft corrected him, and Sherlock's knees got a little weak.

“Yes,” he croaked. “Apart from this.”

“We’ll start with a finger and then we’ll see what you think. It is not my aim to cause you pain, Sherlock.”

It never had been, obviously. Oh, he had caused Sherlock a lot of trouble. To be fair, it had been Sherlock who had brought himself into situations that meant trouble – and Mycroft had pulled him out of them, yelling and hissing and expressing his disappointment very clearly. Mainly because of the drugs. Sherlock remembered going to rehab. He had not liked it… But he had left this all behind, and he knew now that Mycroft had always wanted to help. In his own, unique, insufferable way… “I know,” he said, and the look in his brother’s eyes told him that Mycroft understood that he was not just talking about the upcoming sex.

Mycroft smiled. “Good. Let’s go upstairs then. Care for a drink before we start?”

“Better after we’re finished.”

“You think you’re going to need it then?”

Mycroft sounded a bit worried. As if he thought that Sherlock was having second thoughts. He wasn’t. “Probably,” he said though. “Off to battle.” The battle of the two Holmeses, doing teabagging and fucking...

Mycroft grinned. “I’ll make sure you’re going to win.”

“I suppose that we’re _both_ going to win.” If he didn’t manage to tumble over and break Mycroft's cock, depending on which position his brother had in mind. He had read some awful stories about that.

“That’s the best possible outcome for sure.”

Sherlock shrugged. “As I said: I trust you.” He winced when a warm hand was put onto his neck, stroking him just a teensy bit.

“Good.” And then Mycroft kissed him, grabbing his arse with both hands, and Sherlock was pressed against him, feeling his erection, and suddenly he was feeling very aroused.

*****

“Ngggg!” Sherlock heard a low chuckle beneath him after bringing out these inhuman tones, and it sent vibrations to his already heavily vibrating balls.

Dammit. Fucking hell. This was torture. Again. He desperately tried to calm himself down by imagining that his cock was being poured with ice water. It wouldn’t help for very long…

He had straddled his brother’s face, and the sheer naughtiness of this action was almost enough to make him come. But having his balls sucked at, played with and being tugged at by his brother’s devilish mouth was the hardest test for his self-control he had ever experienced. Mycroft was adding pain to the mix by deliberately scratching his sensitive sack with his teeth and all but chewing his balls, and it was just on the right side of unbearable and so hot and horrible… His brother was enjoying his tea bags thoroughly, so much was sure. Sherlock was beyond having any control about the nonsense that was coming out of his mouth. His thighs were trembling and he was close to ripping his hair out just to distract himself from being tormented like this. The hotness and wetness of Mycroft's mouth, his sharp teeth, his teasing tongue – his brother should be reported to Amnesty International.

Sherlock wondered if he would ever repay this exquisite and delightful form of torture. His own balls were rather small and smooth and round and taut – not huge, hairy things like his brother’s. Probably he would be more occupied with getting air than paying him back, and there would be hairs in his throat… But if Mycroft let him, he would still do his best to give him the same nasty, fantastic treatment.

His cock was leaking severely and it was a sheer wonder that he had not long spurted all over his brother’s chest. Especially since he was watching Mycroft stroke his own cock, squeezing the tip so clear fluid was being pressed out of it. Sherlock wanted to taste and suck but he was sure that he would not manage what was usually called a ‘69’. He had too much to do with Mycroft’s ministrations to be able to concentrate on this delicate task.

And this was just the foreplay… Mycroft had said that he would fuck him, and there was no reason to doubt that he would actually do it. The thought frightened him. Aroused him. Made him wonder for how many days he wouldn’t be able to sit… But he wanted it. Mycroft would tell him that he could ask him to stop anytime but Sherlock wanted them to go all the way tonight. It would bring them, well, closer…

He gasped in shock when Mycroft suddenly reached around to almost brutally masturbate him, and he climaxed all over him within seconds.

“Why did you do that?” he complained when he was urged to lie down on the bed.

“Taking the edge of it, brother. Relax for a bit and then I’ll prepare you for the ride. If you want.”

“Yeah, I want it.” Sherlock was basically talking into the pillow on which he had landed face-first. He yelped when he received a hearty smack on his arse.

“Good.” The smile in Mycroft's voice was easy to hear. “I really can’t wait to spear you.”

What a nice way to put it… Given his brother’s size, it was a very fitting way though. Probably the large thing would poke out of his throat…

His strong orgasm had exhausted him. Only temporarily he was sure. And he held his breath when Mycroft stroked over his back. A tender gesture. Sherlock turned his head to face him, and the smile in Mycroft's face was both teasing and affectionate. It was in moments like this that Sherlock didn’t doubt anymore that his brother truly loved him. In other moments he thought he needed a doctor to look after his brain for just considering it...

*****

“Oh, look at you. So open for me. So wet and slick and ready.”

Sherlock almost keeled over at his brother’s raspy voice. How could anyone speak in such a seductive tone? Especially someone who everyone thought was a cold fish? Not that he would have needed any other reason to keel over after the treatment he had received for the past fifteen minutes. Mycroft really didn’t take any chances at hurting him. He had opened him up on his long tongue and his beautiful fingers. Had worked them in, carefully, aided by lots of sticky lubricant.

“I should take some pictures,” Mycroft mused behind him.

Sherlock, lying on his front with a pillow under his groin, snorted. “And then? Send them to Mummy?”

Mycroft chuckled. “That would cure her from coming to London to see ghastly musicals with us…”

“Yeah.” One more time seeing ‘Cats’ with the parents and Sherlock would move to the other end of the world. Not really though. Not without Mycroft. Dear Lord… He was going mental...

“Just for me…” Mycroft mumbled, and Sherlock turned to him.

“If you want this as your background picture…?”

Mycroft grinned. “That would push it.”

“Speaking of pushing…”

“Ah, so impatient. Fine. I’ll lie down so you can ride me, controlling the pace.”

“No,” Sherlock disagreed. He was so comfortable like this. And he wanted Mycroft to be on top of him. “Like this.”

“And you call _me_ lazy.” But Mycroft winked at him. “Good. If you want to be ridden into the mattress, you shall have it.”

Sherlock was suddenly feeling very tense. And very aroused. He cast his brother a look which probably expressed both, and shuddered when Mycroft laid a huge hand onto his arse.

“I’ll be very careful at the beginning. And I will stop if you tell me to. Understood?”

“Yes,” croaked Sherlock. “Get on with it.”

“Can you say ‘please’?”

“No.” Sherlock grinned when his brother laughed, and then he gasped when Mycroft was suddenly hovering above him and something big and wet was nudging against his well-prepared arsehole. The game was on…

*****

The world as he knew it had stopped existing. Or so it felt. Sherlock had zoned out. Nothing could feel so weird and so good. The pressure in his arse was enormous. It was horrible and fabulous. Mycroft knew how to push his buttons. Quite literally. He was pumping into him in a steady rhythm, sliding in deeper with each thrust, pulling out almost all the way just to spear him again. He was lying flush against Sherlock's back with his chest, only moving his hips. His breath was hot against Sherlock's neck and the side of his face. Every few second he kissed his ear or his cheek.

It was an incredible experience. Sherlock had never been so hard before. Obviously he was one of the men with a very responsive prostate, and he was sure that he would have come very quickly if the stretching of his canal around the massive intruder hadn’t burnt so much. It was not entirely unpleasant, obviously, but he would certainly feel this for at least two days. Sitting down would be a challenge. But he loved it. He loved being fucked and he loved being claimed by his dominant big brother.

He was quite sure that Mycroft was enjoying the experience every bit as much. His breath had sped up and he elicited quiet gasps frequently. The next time he wanted to see Mycroft's face – Sherlock was sure that not even his cool brother could keep his shields in place while being so aroused.

“You all right?” Mycroft was panting now, and Sherlock nodded into the pillow under his face.

“Yes. Fuck me. Harder.” Sherlock barely recognised his own voice.

And Mycroft did as he was told. He increased his speed and the depth of penetration by the second, making Sherlock feel as if his groin was flying off. The pain finally subsided and made way for a storm of arousal, and Sherlock cried out when Mycroft pushed against his hidden gland in a particularly sneaky angle, and then he pumped his seed into the sheets, feeling as if the bottom part of his body was being ripped apart.

Only seconds later he felt strong eruptions of hot fluid into his arse and Mycroft bit down on his neck – not hard enough to make him bleed but certainly leaving a bruise. Wearing a scarf even though it was rather warm would be a necessity for the next couple of days, he assumed.

Sherlock, having gone completely boneless, winced when Mycroft pulled out of him and a dribble of now cold stickiness left his hole. But only moments later he was cleaned up with some tissues. “Your sheets,” he mumbled. “Lost cause…”

Mycroft chuckled next to him. “Nothing my washing machine can’t take care of. So… did you like it?”

“Mm-hm.” Sherlock was unable to formulate words now. Perhaps he would never open his eyes again or leave his brother’s bed.

“I thought so. Come. Let’s get under the shower.”

“No way…” He yelped when he was pulled out of the bed mercilessly. He huffed and met his brother’s look, and he saw a smirk and a glimpse of deep affection in his eyes. And he almost said something horribly sentimental but he could just so refrain from it. But then Mycroft tilted his head, his eyes opening wider in what seemed to be surprise about what he had just seen on Sherlock's face. And when Sherlock already thought he was going to be thrown out of Mycroft's house for committing the crime of having sentiments, his brother smiled at him, and his heart made a little jump of joy.

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but he took Sherlock's hand to guide him to the bathroom, and Sherlock could feel that something had shifted and changed, and it felt damn great.


	7. An Awkward Conversation And Visiting The British Government

Sherlock turned on his heel to grab a scarf from his bedroom, grateful that he had heard someone rummaging in the kitchen before bursting into it. He had thought it was Mrs Hudson, but when he walked in, trying not to walk as if he’d been thoroughly screwed, the scarf hiding his hickey, he found himself eye to eye with John.

“Oh. You’re back?” It was not typical for him to state the obvious, but then, nothing he had done as of late had been exactly typical Sherlock-behaviour… He could still feel Mycroft's cock in his arse… He instantly shooed this thought away before it could cause a very inconvenient reaction.

“Yeah. Sent you a text since you never answer your phone but you ignored me again. What have you been up to?”

Sherlock ignored the question. He was good at ignoring things. And people. “You look good,” he lied. “Got some… colour.”

John, dressed in his usual hideous jumper-jeans-combination, scratched his head. His left hand was holding a cup. And he looked rather exhausted. “Not really, actually. We spent most of the time indoors.” He said it in a sheepish tone and it took Sherlock a moment to get it.

He blushed a bit. Too much unnecessary information. “Oh. Sure. Still. Looking good, you. How is, um…”

John gave him a disbelieving look. “Don’t tell me you forgot her name! You were my best man! I thought you liked her!”

“Well, yes, I do like _Mary_.” Good that he had remembered her name in time. Well, almost in time… “But I sort of like Lestrade as well and still I forget his first name.” What was it again? George, yes, of course.

The doctor shook his head. “I should have known that you wouldn’t take it well. Fooled me long enough, though.”

Sherlock was catching up now. John thought that he had been ignoring his texts and calls because he was a) missing him and b) was jealous of Mary and probably of the unborn child, too.

And he would have, wouldn’t he, if his life hadn't made such an unexpected and exciting turn. He would be missing John, and perhaps he would be resenting him for replacing their adventurous life together for a sodding woman, let’s be honest. It was hard for him to imagine _None-Of-My-Relationships-Lasts-Longer-Than-A-Day_ Watson as a devoted husband and father. He had gotten carried away with all this wedding crap and being John’s best man – because he had been lonely after returning from his mission. And Mary seemed to like him, and he did like her as well (even though he still thought something was fishy about this woman without a relative and a friend in the world). This had made him get involved with them. Yes, Mycroft had been right. He _had_ been involved. With John for years, and then with both of them.

But he wasn't anymore. He saw clearly now and he knew that this phase was more or less over. There wouldn’t be cosy evenings spent with having dinner with the Watson family. He would have liked to still solve cases with John though. He could hardly share this with his brother. Even if Mycroft had been available, he would have made Sherlock unemployed as he could do his job much faster in all probability. Solving cases alone was only half the fun though. He would miss John in this regard, just like he had missed him after coming back to England. And Molly was really no substitute. “I'm fine with you and Mary,” he said firmly. “I just hope you will join me at least for the cases for the Met when you have time.”

John seemed to be relieved. “If I can with my job and everything, I will, of course.”

Great. Probably Sherlock would never see him again when the baby was there…

“I just have to be careful,” John added, not looking at him. “As a dad, I can't really risk my life like this anymore.”

How dramatic… John had never suffered so much as a scratch during their adventures. Okay, Shan had not been that nice to him. And that bomb vest which he had been forced to wear by Moriarty… And the bonfire… Probably not so pleasant either. “Sure,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling a bit low. John might have a point and it might mean that he would never be at his side again.

But, after all, Mycroft was – in a very different sort of way. Sherlock had come home in a splendid mood after their shared shower. Perhaps his brother would have let him stay overnight but Sherlock had not asked. He was almost sure now that Mycroft loved him back but who of them would speak out that their sexual agreement had turned into something else? As open and crude as Mycroft was about his physical needs and preferences and as surprisingly generous as he was with compliments about Sherlock's appearance and increasing sexual skills, as little he could talk about _sentiment_. And Sherlock could not imagine telling his brother that he was in love with him. Not now. It was too soon. He didn’t think that his feelings were going to change but voicing them? No bloody way so far. So he had left after getting kissed dizzy at the door. They would meet again this evening if nothing unexpected made either of them unavailable, and it would require an ‘11’ or some broken bones to make Sherlock skip their date.

Life was good. He was in love. John was still his friend even though he wasn't really there anymore…

John, who was looking at him now, sounded concerned when he mumbled, “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't be. That's life. A new era.” Mycroft really was always right...

“Yeah. I guess so. Um… Mrs Hudson said you'd spent a lot of time away since the wedding.”

Damn Mrs Hudson sticking her nose into his affairs… He really adored her but why had she told John? And why was she monitoring him in the first place? Not good! For a moment he saw her, rolled up in a carpet, on her way to being dumped… She should better stop interfering… He knew that she regarded him as her son but he wasn’t actually. And Mycroft couldn’t stand her, and vice versa… “I wasn't aware that I'm forced to stay at home, brooding,” he snapped.

“No, you're not, of course. I was just… We were a bit worried that you…” John broke off, but Sherlock wouldn’t have needed to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce what was on his mind.

“…that I would do what – take drugs because I feel so lonely?” Would he, if he really was lonely? Would he end up doing that if things between him and Mycroft didn’t work out? If something happened that made Mycroft end their crazy relationship? It wasn't something he really wanted to think about – neither about a possible breakup nor about the consequences that this might have.

John shrugged, looking not happy at all. “Sorry. But yes. I considered the possibility.”

“Well, forget it, John. Not going to happen.” Suddenly he wanted to talk to his brother. Not on the phone. In person. “I have plans now, so if you excuse me...”

“Oh. Sure. I… I have something to do, too. Unpacking and stuff.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good. See you soon. Greetings to Mary.”

“I’ll tell her.” After a moment of awkward silence, John nodded, put his empty mug onto the table and left.

And Sherlock, who hadn't even had a cup of tea, was on his way to Whitehall only five minutes later, only stopping to get some really good coffee and a few sandwiches. He just hoped that Mycroft would have time for him. And that he would not feel annoyed by his visit.

*****

Mycroft had just come out of a meeting when Anthea announced a very special visitor. With some surprise in her voice. Which was very understandable. Sherlock had never dropped by without being summoned before. And since John had come into his life, he had not even done it when Mycroft had told him to but sent the doctor instead…

Well, things had changed of course, a lot actually, but Anthea did (and should) not know this. So he sighed. “Did he say what he wants?” he spoke into the intercom.

“ _No, sir. But… he has a bag from ‘Loris’.”_

Sherlock was bringing him breakfast? Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. It was indiscreet and risky, of course, but it was also very sweet. Not that he thought that it was the only reason for Sherlock to be here. Doctor Watson was back in town and he had obviously paid him a visit. Mycroft had not had time to listen to what was going on in Sherlock's flat but it was an easy deduction. “All right. Send him in.” He had just been about to read a report; there was no meeting due for the next two hours. There was nothing that couldn’t wait.

“ _Yes, sir.”_

Sherlock gave him a sheepish look when he entered his office, closing the door with his heel. “I probably shouldn’t have come.”

“Good morning, little brother.” Mycroft smiled at him reassuringly. “It’s all right. As long as you didn’t tell anybody that you’re here to get ravished?” He smirked when Sherlock’s cheeks reddened and his eyes got a certain shine.

“No,” he croaked, licking his lips unconsciously.

So he had thought about this? It wasn’t as if Mycroft had never fantasised about having him on his desk, the long, muscular legs slung around his waist while he was thrusting into him. But it would have to remain a fantasy. Sherlock was unable to keep quiet when he was aroused, and Mycroft could hardly let him go afterwards with his lips bruised up and his look being the one of a man who’d been shagged silly.

“I… just thought you might want some good coffee. Offices never have any.”

“That was very considerate of you.” The coffee in Whitehall was rather ghastly most of the time indeed. “Do sit down. Put your coat over the other chair.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock gave him an awkward look when he was seated in the visitor’s chair.

And Mycroft knew that he should be showing more… affection. Sherlock was clearly returning his feelings – every remaining doubt had just vanished. And it made his heart sing and he should be holding Sherlock now, telling him that he loved him. But he found that he couldn’t even move. This was his office. The cave of the Iceman. He knew that this was only half the truth though. He had never learned to properly express sentiment. He had even always denied feeling anything. Sherlock would not be here if he didn’t think (or hoped?) that Mycroft loved him but he was equally unable to put his heart on the line.

It wasn’t the right time and place, for neither of them. Would there be a right time, Mycroft's house certainly being the right place? How ironic that both of them – cold, calculating men who cherished their minds more than anything else – were very well capable of feeling love, and for each other above all, but totally lacked the ability to voice it. But they had time. There was no need for haste. He just wanted Sherlock to know that he did, in fact, love him, just in case that his brother doubted it.

So when he had been provided with a very tasty-looking salmon sandwich, he smiled at him. “It was lovely of you to drop by and bring me these goodies. Thank you, brother mine.” It was the best he could do for now.

Sherlock blushed again, looking pleased but also a bit guilty. “You’re welcome. Bit dangerous, I assume.”

“Maybe. But Anthea will never mention it.” He did trust his PA. She would never betray him, even if she suspected that something weird was going on between him and his brother. “So you spoke to John,” he added, cursing himself the next moment.

Sherlock’s face darkened. “Yeah. Of course you’d deduced that. But I’m not here because I’m sad about his wedding or baby or whatever!” he hissed.

 _Well done, Mycroft. Destroying the atmosphere with one stupid sentence._ He nodded, biting his lip. “I know.”

“Why does everybody think that?” Sherlock flared as if he hadn’t said anything.

Mycroft spontaneously reached across the table and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, stroking it with his thumb. “Apologies, little brother.”

Sherlock was taken aback. He stared at his hand – and then he turned his arm so he could grab Mycroft's wrist as well. It was a very strange way to hold hands but it felt exceptionally nice. For a moment, their eyes met, and Mycroft could feel his cheeks getting hot, and Sherlock's had taken on a brighter shade of red as well. Great. A blushing contest… But Sherlock carefully smiled at him, and he returned it.

He could have taken care of Mary Morstan the moment he realised that things between this mysterious woman and Sherlock's only real friend had gotten serious. He had known that it would destroy this friendship. But he hadn’t taken care of it, and he wouldn’t. John didn’t deserve Sherlock's affection. He had reacted to his return with violence, and Mycroft had been very tempted to punish him for this. He had chosen to not interfere though. Sherlock should have known that it was a bad idea to surprise him in this restaurant. He had warned him. It had made him feel a bit ashamed but a part of him had not minded John’s outburst of violence as his brother should have known better and had been behaving very arrogantly in his office. Or perhaps he had just been jealous of the feelings that Sherlock harboured for the doctor. In any way he would not let Mary disappear so John would fully return into his brother’s life. He had never wanted him there to begin with – even though he didn’t mind John having Sherlock's back during cases – and he certainly didn’t want him there now… Sherlock would get over it. He had _him_ , after all.

The brothers Holmes enjoyed their breakfast together, more or less in silence, and when Sherlock had binned the cups and paper, Mycroft pulled him in for a kiss that tasted of coffee and salmon. He just couldn’t let him go without a kiss, office or not.

“I’m glad you dropped by, Sherlock,” he whispered, stroking Sherlock’s hair without messing it up too badly. “I will see you tonight?”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

“Good.” Mycroft pecked him on the lips again and watched him leave with his back a lot straighter than it had been when he’d arrived, and he hoped that his complicated little brother would cope until he had him safe in his arms again.


	8. Missionary Shag

“Damn, Sherlock – you look exhausted.” Mycroft helped him out of his coat.

“Yeah. It was a long day with lots of… legwork.” Sherlock gave his brother a sheepish grin, trying to hide that he had pulled a muscle in his thigh. Well, Mycroft would find out if he urged him to do any strenuous acrobatics with him… And tired and exhausted or not – the thought made Sherlock's cock take interest. His brother looked delectable again in slim black trousers and a dark-red shirt that suited him very well.

“Did you eat anything apart from the sandwich this morning?” The question was asked in a rather suspicious tone.

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe. No.” He had not had time to eat. Some days were quiet, some days were not. Today had been wonderfully busy – without John’s assistance, thank you very much. A few private clients had come with reasonably interesting problems, and then Dimmock had called with a serial robbery, and Sherlock had deduced where the next crime would take place and voilà – he had been right. Since the police weren’t only stupid but also very slow, it had been his task to run after the criminals, guiding the cops to the street where they had to come out via phone. It had all went very well. But dammit – running had been easier five years ago…

“Great to see that you’re looking after yourself,” Mycroft drawled, every inch the displeased big brother he would probably always be, lovers or not. “And what happened to your leg?” They had been walking towards the living room side by side.

Damn. Mycroft hadn’t missed the slight limping. He wondered why he had even bothered with trying to hide it. “Had to catch some bad people.”

Mycroft sighed. “You need to take better care of yourself, Sherlock.”

“Yes, daddy.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Daddy? Is that the game you want to play?”

“Well, you did rule out pain play so I guess I’ll be safe from being spanked.”

Mycroft gave him a sardonic grin. “I did hit your extraordinary bottom already, didn’t I? I was rather referring to heavy bondage, brother. I might still gag and spank you if that’s your kink.”

Sherlock shuddered. “Not really… And tonight I rather feel like…” He broke off, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

Mycroft stopped and put his hand onto his shoulder. “Cuddling, maybe?”

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip. “And… Perhaps… Sex.”

“Ah. Seeing that you are in such a splendid condition, you will go for a wild ride on me,” Mycroft deadpanned.

“Mycroft…”

The older brother chuckled. “Just teasing you. Fine, we’ll have dinner – lucky for you, my housekeeper was here and has prepared enough for both of us – and then I will fill you up with lube and fuck you missionary if your arse can bear it so soon after the last time.”

It did still sting a bit. But in a sexy, nice way… “It can. Thank you, daddy.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “Yes, big bad daddy will take good care of reckless little Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t doubt this one bit.

*****

 _He wants to see my face_ , Mycroft thought while, for now, gently thrusting into his brother’s body.

He had opened Sherlock up once more, not missing that he was still a bit sore from their previous activities. Of course he had asked Sherlock again if he was sure that he wanted Mycroft's cock up his arse again, but Sherlock had told him to get on with it in no uncertain words. Knowing that the silly boy had injured his leg by chasing after criminals, Mycroft had asked if he wanted to be taken on his side instead of from above when he had finished his preparations, but Sherlock had denied this as well.

“ _Just fuck me, daddy,”_ he had snarled, and Mycroft had rolled his eyes.

 _Daddy…_ As if the fact that they were brothers wasn’t fucked up enough… Mycroft had waved Sherlock's protests away on day one, saying that they didn’t have to care about the morals of the common population. But in fact, his desires for his own little brother had disturbed him in the beginning. Not that much as he would have never expected that he would be allowed to act on them. Probably he had been rather concerned about his own lack of control concerning his body’s needs. He had taken other men to bed instead but it had just not been the same. Of course not. These men had not been worth his efforts. Well, it wasn’t as if he had put that much effort in ‘seducing’ them, for the lack of a better word, and he had not cared about their needs in the least. He had reciprocated some sexual favours though as he, regardless of the unworthy partner, enjoyed performing them, but he had left immediately after there had been orgasms and he had never met any of these men a second time.

Loving Sherlock was a completely different story. To feel his stretched skin around his fingers was incredible, the heat of his anal canal, the knowledge that he was in him with his digits, let alone his cock… He briefly wondered what their actual ‘daddy’ would say if he saw them like this. Mycroft assumed that he wouldn’t say anything as he would be too busy with his heart attack… And their mother… He and Sherlock would have to be very careful when they met them together the next time. It would hopefully not happen so soon as their parents had given up inviting them to their home, knowing that, should they really show up against all odds, Sherlock would constantly sulk about having to be away from his beloved London and that he, Mycroft, would hate every minute of being forced to stay away from his responsible job and express this very clearly. But one day they would probably meet them together and then they would have to play being ‘normal’ siblings – or bickering and estranged siblings; they would have to discuss if it made sense to let them know that they were getting along better now before seeing them. Father would most likely never notice any unusual vibes between them, but Mycroft was not so sure about their mother.

Would what they had now last at all until this possibly happened? Was it reasonable to expect that Sherlock, who was not exactly known for permanence in his interests, had fallen for him for good? Or was it just another rather exciting experience for him – if not an experiment?

He looked down on his brother's beautiful face. Sherlock was panting and moaning under his so far shallow thrusts, his eyes gazing into Mycroft's. His heart made itself known at the look in those amazing eyes. Sherlock was clearly in love with him but would it last? Mycroft knew nothing about romantic relationships, not from personal experience. He did know that love was the most destructive feeling of all, leaving jealousy, envy and hatred far behind. He had loved Sherlock for a long time now without even giving it much thinking as it had been so far out of reach. It wasn’t anymore, and this was amazing, but he was sure that losing it again would hit him hard. Very hard.

He heard Sherlock stammer something and stilled.” Say again?”

“Didn’t tell you to stop,” protested Sherlock. “Kiss me.”

“Oh. Yes.” And he bent down and claimed his brother's lips. He could feel Sherlock wince and he assumed that his leg was hurting, but Sherlock slung both of his long, strong legs around his waist before he could ask him about it. His arms were around Mycroft's neck, firmly, and he was kissing him back with vigour.

It was wonderful, simply put. Mycroft was highly aroused by the feeling of Sherlock's warmth and tightness around his prick, his muscles contracting around it most deliciously, but he was much more moved by the sentiment he had always claimed not to have.

He was very close to breaking the kiss and telling him when Sherlock moaned into his mouth and came with a low cry, painting both of their bodies with sticky hotness.

Mycroft's own orgasm was strangled out of him in the go by Sherlock's heavily constricting muscles, and he buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck while he was shuddering through his climax, just so refraining from biting him again. It hadn't been very smart to do this. It was summer, and if Sherlock didn’t wear a scarf, everybody would be able to see his bite mark, and for someone who was known to be single and not even interested in sex, this was a bit not good. It must have been a deeply hidden, primitive instinct that had made him do this, and he wouldn’t repeat it. This secret was too dangerous to let anyone know about it, no matter how great it had felt to mark Sherlock as his own.

He pulled his softening prick out and lay down next to his brother. The sheets were due to be changed again. It was convenient that his linen all looked the same so his housekeeper wouldn’t notice the change. He was an adult who was allowed to have a sex life, but he had never brought men home so it didn’t do to make her suspicious. Thank God he had no direct neighbours. Nobody would see Sherlock come and go. Nobody would hear the noises of sexual satisfaction.

There was some inconvenience to such a forbidden, taboo love but Mycroft would do whatever was necessary to protect it.

“What are you thinking of?” asked Sherlock, who seemed to be able to form sentences again. He was getting used to having sex, no doubt about it.

“How I'm going to have you next time,” Mycroft smirked.

“In any way you want,” Sherlock said calmly and with conviction.

“Mm. Dangerous invitation.”

“Not really. You’re a kitten, Mycroft. Iceman, my arse.”

“Insolent boy!” flared Mycroft, bending over to tickle him.

Sherlock giggled and shoved him away. “No, don’t, or I’ll pee in your bed!”

“You remember what I said about watersports?” Mycroft reminded him, winking.

“Yeah. Better get up before…” He yelped when he received a smack on his bottom. “What was that for?”

“No particular reason. Your bum is just very spankable.”

Sherlock snorted and stalked out of the room, still limping, but Mycroft didn’t miss his amusement. This was just nice. Little brother was a joy to be around if he was like this.

When Sherlock came back, he was wet and rubbing his hair with a towel. He must have showered in record time.

“Do you want to stay?” Mycroft surprised himself and Sherlock.

His brother looked decidedly happy. “Yes. Very much.”

Mycroft smiled. “Good. Do you snore?”

“Um. I don't know. Don't think so. I do mumble in my sleep sometimes though. Sometimes I wake myself up with it,” he added sheepishly.

“Well, if you say something interesting, I'll listen.”

“Everything I say is interesting, Mycroft!” Sherlock sat down on the bed.

“If you say so. Fresh linen is in the wardrobe over there.” It was his time to shower, and he scrambled out of the bed to wash the sweat and the stickiness away.

Sherlock sighed. “Fine, if I must.”

“Yes. It dribbled out of _your_ arse.”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, but it came out of _your_ cock.”

“You made it, though.”

“Touché.”

Mycroft smiled before he got serious again. “If your leg hurts too much, just wait for me.”

“Nah. It’s fine. You fucked the pain out of me.”

Mycroft knew that this wasn't quite true but he grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“Do you?”

“Do what?”

“Snore.”

Mycroft, already standing in the door, shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve never shared my bed with anyone before.”

And Sherlock beamed at him and it made Mycroft's heart do strange things. With a smile, he left Sherlock behind to freshen up. And he couldn’t wait to come back and sleep next to his beautiful baby brother.

*****

Somehow Sherlock had assumed that Mycroft would put on some fancy pyjamas before joining him in bed but his brother lay down as naked as Sherlock was, smelling of toothpaste, body wash and deodorant.

This was weird, and exciting, and a bit scary. It was the next step; even the relationship-wise inexperienced Sherlock was aware of this. It was almost an ‘I love you’. He wondered why he had still not brought these words over his lips. He had even said them to John, albeit rather indirectly, in his best man’s speech. And he had meant it but the love for his former flatmate was something completely different. If there had ever been a time when he had thought that he might want more from the doctor than his friendship and assistance during case-work, he couldn’t remember it anymore. And now John had more or less left his life. He wasn’t a real part of it anymore; if Sherlock was lucky, he would make some guest appearances…

Saying these words to Mycroft would mean so much more, and even though he was sure about his and Mycroft's feelings now, he shied away from expressing this. Or perhaps he just did because he was still not a hundred percent sure that Mycroft would welcome such an outburst of sentiment, even though he clearly returned the feeling. In the end, he was the older brother and could say it first.

And what was he supposed to do now? Cuddle up to his brother? Lying next to him, silent and still? Turning his back to him so he wouldn’t breathe into his direction? There should have been a handbook for such things, like ‘How to behave when you spent your first full night with your brother’. Or rather: ‘lover’, probably. Perhaps such a thing even existed! He would have to investigate. But he could hardly do it now, could he? It would…

And then Mycroft put his arm around him and pulled him into a tight embrace, and Sherlock ended flush against his brother's body, one arm wrapped around him, his mouth tickled by wiry chest hair, and it just felt right.


	9. Favours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are thoroughly moving away from canon from here on. After all this is a fix-it. It is all meant to save Sherlock pain. Sorry for being too nice to Mary. I can't stand her but it had to be done so she won't harm Sherlock.  
> I hope you are all safe. Take care, my friends!

Mycroft had been spending a busy morning. Meetings, taking care of PM-related drama, an agent on a wayward path and, of course, taking care of his reports – the work never ceased.

He had just finished reading a report about Russian schemes and decided that a cup of tea and a short break would be fine now when Anthea announced a visitor. And not his brother, unfortunately.

It had been very nice to wake up next to him. Mycroft could have gotten used to this – seeing beautiful Sherlock all crumpled and with his hair sticking to his head. But it wasn’t the time to muse about adorable little brothers now.

“Send her in,” he said, knowing there was something important going on when Lady Elizabeth Smallwood came by unannounced.

She looked bad, he noticed, when she stalked into his office. Dressed impeccably, hair and makeup perfectly done, there was a haunted look in her eyes. This was nothing work-related, he deduced. “Lady Smallwood.” He gestured at the visitor’s chair.

“Thank you, Mycroft.” She was the only one in this house who used his first name.

He had raised his eyebrows when she had first done it but she had ignored it, and he didn’t really care. Being the boss of the MI6, she was high enough in the ranks of the British Government for him to respect her. He didn’t like her, of course, especially because he had the strong feeling that she liked him a bit too much. She was too much of a lady and too married and probably too realistic to openly coming on to him, thank God. This conversation would have not ended very pleasantly…

“Tea?” Mycroft offered.

“Whiskey would be better…”

“So bad?” He asked Anthea to bring them coffee and tea via intercom.

“Worse…” But the lady didn't say another word until they had received cups and beverages and Anthea had left them alone again.

“Shoot,” Mycroft said then, not only because he was a busy man but also because he was curious.

“Magnussen,” she said in a dark voice. “Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Oh. I see. The information-hoarding businessman.” A shadowy figure, a media man with a dark agenda and highly suspicious contacts. They had let him do as he liked so far as he was also pretty useful and had not bothered anyone overly important. But now he had obviously gone a bit too far. “Blackmailing you?”

The hand she had put onto the table was balled into a fist. “My husband. Through me. And he says it’s not blackmail. He says… he owns me… Because of a ridiculous, old story. Help me, Mycroft. He has to be stopped.”

Mycroft nodded. “Tell me everything.” It was all a question of weighing up the pros and the cons, of attacking or waiting. And it was always good to be owed a big favour. This was not only his line of work. It was what he lived for – if he wasn’t making love to his beautiful brother, that is… Scheming. Striking. And the more he heard about a long forgotten correspondence of a lord with an underage girl and a blackmailer with sweaty hands and a slimy personality, the surer he became that his interference would be necessary. Who knew if this man wasn’t able to find out something extremely delicate about _him_ … Mycroft had always acknowledged serious opponents, and CAM clearly was one of them. He was dangerous and he had to be taken out.

“Leave it to me, Lady Smallwood,” he said and sipped at his coffee. Naturally, he wouldn’t do it himself. He knew people who would take care of anyone he pointed at and smile while doing it because they knew that he would not forget what they had done for him. It was a circle of doing and owing favours… And he supposed they were also hidden psychopaths who loved to take people out…

“I owe you.” The lady gave him a deep look.

Mycroft was pretty sure how she would like to pay her debt, married or not. “It’s in everybody’s interest,” he said as if he hadn’t noticed her expression, and she flinched but nodded, too, before she got up. “This conversation…”

“...never happened of course.” That she even found it necessary to tell him…

“Apologies. He really upset me.”

Mycroft gave her an indulgent half-smile. He could imagine. Well, Charles Augustus Magnussen was history. He just didn't know it yet.

*****

“I usually don’t drive people around,” Charles Augustus Magnussen lied. In fact, he often shared a ride with interesting company. Usually he searched theirs though, hungry for gaining information or telling them which kind of dirt he had on them. But in this case, the young man had come to him this afternoon.

“I appreciate your time, Mr Magnussen.” The man had introduced himself as Steve Smith, but Magnussen had raised his eyebrows.

“ _I don’t talk to people with false names,”_ he had haughtily said. This had also been a lie. But he always knew how to play people.

“ _Fine. You can have my first name. I’m Ajay.”_

“ _It’s a pleasure to meet you.”_ Magnussen had been sitting in the park near his office, enjoying the sun on his face. In England, he saw way too little of it. _“What can I do for you?”_

“ _I’m looking for a woman.”_

“ _Oh, aren’t we all?”_

Ajay had grimaced _. “Very funny. I have known her in another life. So to speak. I followed her trace to London. And_ _I heard that you are_ the _man when it comes to certain matters._ _”_

“ _London is a big city.”_

“ _Yeah. Not big enough for her and me though,”_ Ajay had grimly said, and then he had shown him a picture of nobody else other than Mary Morstan, now Watson. London might be a big city, but the world was small.

Magnussen had not shown that he had recognised her _. “Give me all you know about her and meet me later today.”_ He couldn’t have enough material about this interesting woman. Ammunition was the loveliest word in the world, wasn’t it?

The young man had been taken aback _. “So soon? You think you will find out anything about her on such short notice?”_

He was a handsome boy, Magnussen had thought, but he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, considering that he didn’t come to the conclusion that Magnussen knew about the target already _. “I'm good,”_ he had simply said. And he was not a detective… If he hadn't had personal interest in this woman, mainly because she was the wife of Sherlock Holmes’ best friend, he would have sent this little twat away. But this had sounded like fun… He needed to get to Mycroft Holmes’ secrets. And Sherlock would help him because he would want to protect his dear friend’s wife. Ah, scheming was his life! He had other irons in the fire of course, for example Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, colleague of the older Mr Holmes. But he didn’t have much hope to reach his goals through her. She was made of stern stuff. But when he had gotten these awful letters with the lovely pictures of a young girl, he had felt inclined to start a little game with her nonetheless. It helped pass the time. And when he was through with her, he would seriously target the master of stupid deductions, Sherlock Holmes, who had no idea about his existence and his involvement in John Watson’s little bonfire accident so far. Soon… Planning was almost more fun than actually striking…

“I found out what you want to know,” he told Ajay now while they were driving out of London. Ajay had been too nervous to talk in his office so Magnussen had offered this little ride.

“You know where she is?” the younger man asked greedily.

“Oh yes. The question is – what is this information worth?”

“What do you want? I have ten-thousand…”

“A blowjob. Right here and now.”

Ajay gaped at him, his face a mask of disgust. “You must be joking.”

“Oh, not at all.” He unzipped his trousers. “An orgasm for an address. Sounds like a good deal to me.” He wasn't gay. He wasn't straight, either. He didn’t crave sexual fulfilment, let alone romantic complications. He just liked to rile people up.

And to his great amusement, Ajay took a deep breath, grabbed his small, flaccid cock and bent over him. He had just taken him into his mouth when Magnussen, grinning at the disgusted face of the pretty boy, heard a loud noise, and the car started to race, seemingly being out of control.

“What’s wrong?!” he screamed at the driver, hastily reaching over to lower the privacy screen, but there was no answer, Ajay was shouting something he didn’t listen to, and then there was a loud crash and everything went dark.

*****

Sherlock watched his brother roll his eyes. Mycroft had told him that he needed to leave his phone on for an hour before they could get tactile. Sherlock hadn’t minded. They could still do some cuddling until whatever Mycroft was waiting for had happened. He had asked him, but Mycroft had said that it was something urgent but not interesting.

Sherlock had doubted this very much but he was fine with it. He didn’t need to know that much about his brother’s job. If Mycroft didn’t want him to know, he couldn’t make him tell him anyway. He didn’t meet his brother in order to find out state secrets after all…

“Great. Why did nobody see that he’s not alone?” he heard Mycroft hissing into the phone.

Oho. Now that did sound interesting. Someone had been killed, it seemed. And Mycroft had told his men to do it. There had been unforeseen complications though, obviously, as the execution had been done by goldfish…

Exciting… Sherlock, lying on Mycroft's bed, started to stroke himself through his trousers.

“Yeah. No way to let him disappear when the cops are there so soon… I know… Good… At least this part of the mission was completed… There is still the material to… Oh… Really? Nothing? Interesting. But it makes sense,” Mycroft added, obviously merely to himself.

Sherlock was surprised that Mycroft hadn’t left the room when the call had come. But perhaps he had thought that it would bother him and cause him to start a row. He wouldn’t have, though. His brother was allowed to have secrets. As long as they didn’t involve fooling around with other men!

Mycroft ended the call and switched off his phone after firing off a text. So he had arranged someone’s death for someone else and had just informed this person about it. It was an easy deduction.

“Where were we?” Mycroft turned to him, the exasperation leaving his face.

“Good people are hard to get, huh?”

“Very true.” Mycroft joined him on the bed. “No word about work anymore now, if you please.”

Sherlock grinned. “Fine. I don’t think my arse can take your cock again tonight though.”

Mycroft looked a bit terrified. “Did I hurt you so much?”

“Nah. It’s just a bit sore. But my cock is totally fine.”

“Bad brother, making your bum sore,” Mycroft crooned. “Let him make it better by sucking your cock, yes?”

“No objections, brother dear.”

*****

The woman whose name had never been Mary Morstan sipped at her tea, her left hand put on her stomach. There was no bulge yet but there soon would be.

Sometimes she still couldn’t believe it. Women like her didn’t get such a second chance. They didn’t get husbands who were caring and interesting, who were working with famous detectives and had millions of gripping stories to tell.

She was happy. For the first time in her life, she was happy. A youth that had been lacking everything but violence and abuse, followed by a life of killing people. How had she ended up like this now? With her handsome husband, who was smiling at her across the breakfast table now?

The honeymoon had been wonderful. But with John, as sappy as it sounded, every day was like a honeymoon.

There was only one dark patch on her soul. She regretted having to lie to John about everything from her past. She didn’t even dare tell him her real name. He had no idea that she had not always been a nurse. It hurt. But it was necessary. Her past could always catch up with her. She was too smart to not know that. It made her nervous on every given day, and it was hard to hide it all the time.

“Damn.” John huffed out a disbelieving chuckle. He had started reading the newspaper.

“What is it?” Mary asked, smiling.

“An accident with no other car involved. Three men died.”

“And this is funny because…?”

“Ah, of course it isn't funny. The weird thing is that it seems that one man was giving the other one a blowjob or handjob when it happened. At least the old guy, a big guy in the media, who was suspected to be a blackmailer, had his cock out and the other one was rather handsome. They don't even know who _he_ was. He's had false papers.”

There was a strange stirring in Mary’s stomach, and it had nothing to do with the breakfast or the baby. It was like a premonition. She looked at the papers and saw the picture of a definitely dead man, and she almost fainted, and it had nothing to do with him being dead – she had seen many dead people in her former life…

“His name was Steve Smith, according to his passport, but it seems…”

She blanked John out. This man's name had indeed not been Steve Smith. Ajay. She would have recognised him in a crowd of thousands. There had been feelings between them. And then he had died during the Tbilisi disaster. Or so she had thought. Faking one’s death was a thing, obviously. What had he been doing in London? With this man? Magnussen had been his name, she read in the headlines.

She might not be Sherlock Holmes, but she didn’t have to be. Ajay had been looking for her. He must have found out that she was in London. But he hadn't known her new name or address. He had certainly not been this older man’s lover. Ajay had not favoured men. He had been paying for information… Information about her – she couldn’t be sure but somehow she was.. And he had certainly not come because he was missing her. He had come to… punish her. For disappearing? Or because he had thought she was responsible for the failure of their last mission? And Magnussen… Had he been the one to text her before John had almost burnt in this bonfire?

Her hands were shivering. She had gotten away. Again. Someone had taken the media man out. This didn’t sound like a simple accident. She was too experienced in such matters to believe this. The blackmailer had chosen the wrong victim this time. Someone with power and the connections to make an ‘accident’ happen. Obviously they didn’t doubt that it had been a more or less simple car crash. And Ajay? Had they planned his death, too? If she had to guess, she would have said no.

“Hey, Mary? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She smiled at him. “Not used to looking at dead people at the breakfast table.” They would have known about this if they hadn’t been so busy with each other the previous evening. John had not even once looked at his phone.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, sounding sheepish, and he hastily folded the papers.

“It’s fine. Let’s go shopping for the baby when we’re finished, okay?” She felt like celebrating a bit.

John smiled brightly at her. “Great idea!”

Oh, how much she loved him… She only hoped that nobody would get hold of Magnussen’s blackmailing material and use it. Because he had obviously known her new identity. But since someone had made the effort to kill him, they would hopefully let the stuff disappear. She would know it soon enough, and she would start her own investigation and do what was necessary. But for now, she wanted to feel good about having gotten away, and something told her that she would never hear anything about it again. Perhaps she didn’t even deserve this second chance on a ‘normal’ life after what she had done in her previous one but she had taken it nonetheless and would hold onto this good man for good, and she couldn’t wait to start a family with him.


	10. Topping Mycroft

“Wow. This really looks like a cinema!” Sherlock looked around in a room he had not entered before. He had actually not seen a lot of his brother’s house at all – apart from the bedroom, the kitchen and the living room. And he had hardly ever been to this place before things between them had gotten so interesting.

Mycroft gave him a sheepish look. “Sorry for not properly showing you around.”

“Ah, no worries. I guess I’ve seen the most important parts.” Sherlock playfully leered at him.

Mycroft smiled. “Still. And I thought we could watch a film together.”

There was a huge collection for sure. A very old-fashioned one… “Do you own anything from this century?”

“Hm. Probably not.”

Sherlock waved it away. He wasn’t exactly a film crack. He hated to watch telly. But he could always join his brother in indulging in this harmless little hobby. “Just pick something. I can still sleep if it’s too boring.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Sit down, you cheeky boy. And yes. I’ve got broad shoulders you can lean against.”

“I adore your shoulders,” Sherlock assured him. Along with his cock, his arse, the rest of his body, his soul, his brain… He adored everything about his brother. And Mycroft might be a kitten towards him but he still was the Iceman in his job.

Sherlock had not asked him why he had taken this strange man from Scandinavia out, sure that his brother wouldn’t tell him anyway. A blackmailer… Sherlock hated those people. He would certainly not shed a tear for him. The driver and the other man in the car… Well, collateral damage was probably the correct term. Sherlock had read everything he could find about the ‘accident’ and the people involved. He had felt like a murder groupie in a way… Of course Mycroft had not caused the accident himself; he had told someone to do it. Perhaps Sherlock was rather a ‘power groupie’ then… His brother, the dangerous Iceman, taking care of a shadowy individual. Sherlock couldn’t help but find this exciting. And hot…

Exciting wasn’t quite the word he would have used to describe the film that had started. He was sitting next to his brother on a very comfortable couch, his head indeed leaning against Mycroft's shoulder, his brother’s arm around his neck. It felt nice.

But the stupidity of the film irked and surprised him. How could someone as smart and aloof as his brother waste his time with such nonsense?

Mycroft noticed his distress, naturally. “It’s just a harmless form of escapism,” he said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder.

“Ah, you mean ‘harmless’ in opposite to the means I used to turn to,” Sherlock couldn’t help but mumble. Indeed – a stupid film was a socially more accepted form of distraction than drugs...

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought of it.” Strange. They had never spoken about the sore points of their lives. About what had made their relationship so difficult for so long. But then, they had never talked all that much to begin with. Probably they should, at some point.

“I know that you mainly did it because you were bored,” Mycroft mumbled, stroking his arm with his fore- and middle finger.

“Yeah. Not bored anymore. Well…” Sherlock gestured at the screen.

Mycroft shook his head but he grinned. He stopped the film. “I know you are sober, little brother. And I won’t torture you with this kind of entertainment.”

“Ah, I didn’t mean to spoil your fun.”

“No worries. I can have fun in other ways… What do you think? Would you like to top me?”

Sherlock stared at him. “You want me to fuck you? Now?”

“Well, we can share a thorough shower and then, yes. Why not? Except if your leg…”

“Sod my leg!” Sherlock was on his feet already. “I want to! But… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Ah, you’re a clever boy. You know what it takes to prepare me since I did it for you. And I’ll be guiding you.”

“What are we waiting for?” Sherlock hissed, impatiently. Wasting their time with silly films when they could have done this instead!

Mycroft gave him an indulgent smile. “Dear me. I created a sex monster.”

“Yes. You did. And now live with the consequences!”

“I think I will. Come, my horny darling.”

 _Darling…_ Mycroft had never said something like this to him before. Suddenly Sherlock was not only very aroused. He felt that something would change tonight. To the better, after this hint of an argument, which had been based on old resentments. They would have to go there and try to erase them for good. But not right now. Now he would do everything he could to make Mycroft feel very good with him. And he couldn’t wait to lose this kind of virginity as well… And make his brother lose his!

*****

When the last traces of body wash had been licked off, Sherlock rolled his eyes in pleasure at Mycroft's natural taste. Musky, salty but also sweet. He licked and licked at the wrinkled flesh of his brother’s entrance, feeling his brother relax at the caresses that were done for preparing him but also meant to arouse him. Mycroft was holding his package up so Sherlock could gain better access to his opening, and his cock was half hard for now.

“Add a finger, Sherlock,” he rasped out now. “And don’t forget the lube.”

He sounded a bit nervous, Sherlock realised. Well, it was his first time bottoming after all. And it was not only the physical side that might make him feel uncomfortable but probably even more the feeling of giving up control. Not that Sherlock expected him to do that… Even on bottom, Mycroft would still be in charge. Or perhaps he didn’t want that? Well, they would find out…

He worked first one and then two sticky fingers into the incredible tightness of his brother’s arse. The hot skin stretching around his digits felt amazing, and he wondered how long he would be allowed to indulge in the feeling of his cock engulfed by it before he would spurt like a fountain… It would certainly not be a long-lasting pleasure so if Mycroft was a bit scared of being taken (even though he didn’t really show it of course but he blinked twice as often as usual and that had to mean something), he wouldn’t have to endure it for very long. But Sherlock didn’t want him to _endure_ it – he wanted him to _enjoy_ it.

So when he finally sank into this tight heat, he went at snail’s pace. Still Mycroft grimaced and Sherlock asked him if he was okay.

“Sure I am, little brother. It’s just new to me.”

“Feels weird, huh? Like being poked with a branch.”

Mycroft chuckled. “It’s not that bad. You can go faster.”

Sherlock had been so concentrated on his lover’s reactions that he had not really felt a lot so far. But when he sank in deeper, he felt as if his groin had been set on fire. He was fucking Mycroft! He was now balls deep in his brother! He almost bit into his own tongue when his brother’s long legs were slung around his waist.

“Do it, Sherlock. I won’t break.”

“No, but I will come in two seconds if… Oh, fuck…” He almost sobbed when the orgasm crashed through his system and he filled his brother to the brink while shuddering uncontrollably.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Mycroft mumbled soothingly, urging him to lie down across his body. “We’ll just wait for a few minutes and do it again, hm?”

“Really? What about you?”

“Ah, I’ll save my load for the next round.” Mycroft’s large hands were soothingly stroking his back.

“I… liked that very much,” Sherlock mumbled. “You, spread out for me.” All this hairy, pale flesh on display for him to devour with his eyes… and hands… and lips… “Thank you for letting me do this.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I told you from the start – this isn’t a one-way-street. We can do whatever you like to try.”

“And what if I wanted to… No, forget it.”

Mycroft patted his arse. “Tell me. No reason to be shy.”

“It was just a crazy idea.”

“What, Sherlock? You want to shave my fur off?”

“No! I love your fur!” Sherlock grabbed a handful of chest hair and pulled at it to make his point.

“Ouch. So you want to rip it out?” Mycroft chuckled.

Sherlock kissed the reddened skin. “Sorry. No. It’s going to stay.”

“Then what? Oh. That?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I know you ruled this out but I would like to experiment with it one day. Not now.”

“If you like. As long as I don’t have to drink it…”

“Nah.” Sherlock grimaced. “And who said that _I_ want to pee on _you_?”

“Really? Want to get showered with big brother’s piss? My little pervert.” Mycroft sounded decidedly fond, not appalled.

The idea of Mycroft pissing on him had come out of nowhere. Maybe it would be nasty. Maybe not. Maybe Mycroft would never actually do it. But in any way imagining it had made him hard again.

Mycroft felt it against his thigh. “Oh. Ready again. Maybe I should go on all fours now?”

“Or you just lie on your side and I take you from behind.” They had covered the bed with some fluffy towels this time. They were probably a bit soiled already but at at least they wouldn’t have to change the sheets again.

“Fine with me. No legwork for me.”

Sherlock bit his shoulder. “Lazy man.”

“Do your worst then. Show me what you can do in _two_ minutes, or maybe even three?”

“Nasty brother!”

“I know.” Mycroft smiled at him and it did things to Sherlock's heart.

They rearranged themselves on the bed, and then Sherlock slipped inside his still open brother again, and he embraced him and started to fuck him once more.

*****

Mycroft assumed that Sherlock had expected him to top from the bottom as they said, but he felt surprisingly good being rather passive under his brother’s careful thrusts. Sherlock had his arms wrapped around him from behind since becoming fully seated in him, and it was a very nice feeling.

It did feel weird to have something up his arse. He was not a born bottom; so much was sure. But to please Sherlock, he would do this more often. And perhaps he did have this magic spot inside him after all. It was definitely enjoyable to be connected to his brother, to feel him flush against his back, his hot breath against his neck, a certain part of him buried in his rear end.

He was pondering about Sherlock's wish to do watersports with him – on the receiving end no less. Mycroft couldn’t even imagine peeing on his brother but the trust that Sherlock had been expressing with this suggestion touched him. In the end, they would probably try this one day, if Sherlock really insisted on it.

“Get your hand around my cock, brother,” he demanded, feeling and hearing Sherlock's breath speeding up. His brother was close again – oh, the joys of being young – and Mycroft wanted to reach his crisis too, this time, and not by jacking off himself.

Sherlock immediately obeyed and Mycroft was stroked to full hardness within moments, and then Sherlock erupted in him again, groaning and moaning into his ear, and Mycroft came with a strangled noise over his brother’s massaging hand and his stomach.

His brother made no attempt at pulling out, slumping against him, and Mycroft rubbed his arm.

“You hated it,” mumbled Sherlock with closed eyes.

“Not at all. It is very nice to feel you in me.”

“But it doesn’t make you crazy like you make me.”

“I’ve always made you crazy.”

Sherlock chuckled and pressed a kiss onto his shoulder. “True. I like this way better. Sex, I mean. In any way.”

“So do I, little brother.”

“Darling.”

“Sorry?”

“You called me ‘darling’ earlier.”

Had he? Oh yes. “Well. You are. My darling.” Mycroft bit his lip but he needn’t have to worry.

“Mine, too, you.”

Mycroft smiled, warmth spreading out in his chest. “Very eloquent.”

Sherlock chuckled. “S’not my fault. You make me all… speechless.”

“Of course. Try again?” He turned his head and their eyes met.

“You’re my darling,” said Sherlock, pointedly.

It was not ‘I love you’, not quite, not yet, but that was what they both meant. “I’m glad, little brother,” Mycroft said softly.

And Sherlock squeezed him tight from behind, and Mycroft felt lighter than he had done for a very long time.


	11. Conversation And Blowjob

“And so you see, Lestrade – nobody else could have done it.”

The DI scratched his head. “Amazing. After all these years, you’re still stunning me with your cleverness.”

“Me too,” said John.

Sherlock grinned and waved their praise away. “You sound like a cop in a bad crime series, Gus.”

“Greg.”

“Damn…” Would he ever be able to remember the man’s name?

But Lestrade was grinning. “Never mind. As long as you keep on saving my arse, you can call me by whatever name you like.” He waved at Sherlock and strolled over to Donovan to give her orders.

“I’m surprised you still remember _my_ name,” Sherlock heard John say.

He turned to his friend. “Well… you’re here now.” He had called John when Lestrade had asked him to come to this pleasantly nasty part of London to look at a corpse. And John had immediately agreed.

“You look happy, Sherlock.”

Well… Probably because he _was_ happy. Mycroft made him very happy. They had met every evening this week and things had become so much… easier… lighter… more relaxed between them. Sherlock was sure of his brother’s feelings now and there was no need to hide his own anymore. He had still not gotten these three words over his lips, and neither had Mycroft, but that was fine. He knew that his brother loved him and one day they would gather enough courage to speak it out, and then the floods of sentiment would be open and…

“You don’t miss me, do you?”

Oh. John was still there… “Of course I do. Nobody’s there to complain about my mess or the heads in the fridge.”

“Are there any? Molly says she doesn’t see you at all anymore.”

Damn… Why did they all have to gossip about him? “Well…”

“Are you… seeing someone?”

Sherlock was very happy about his scarf. The bruise had almost disappeared but Eagle-Eye-John would have spotted it within seconds if he hadn’t covered the fading remains. He snorted. “Who ever would be worth ‘seeing’ as you put it?”

John shrugged. “Yeah, I wondered, too.”

“I want to write a book. About London’s criminal elements,” Sherlock lied. “That’s why I’m busy with research.”

“Oh.” John didn’t look entirely convinced and certainly not very pleased. “Isn’t that a bit dangerous, going to such areas all alone? I could come with you.”

“Now, yes, but when the baby’s there…”

John sighed. “Yes. Everything will change. But I’m looking forward to being a dad, of course.”

Sherlock wasn’t that sure about that. John had always been an adventurer. He couldn’t imagine his old friend, sitting around with a baby on his knees. But Mary was there, too, of course.

“Let me know when you go out next and I will see if I can accompany you.”

Sherlock wondered if he would actually be forced to write such a sodding book. But he could probably do this without any further research. What he didn’t know about criminals already wasn’t worth knowing. Perhaps he really would do it. He could start tonight, maybe. Mycroft would have to attend a party in Whitehall, with the PM and all those boring people. No sexy evening. But Mycroft would come home before to change into dinner clothing, and Sherlock would drop by and surprise him. Probably he would go home to Baker Street then, though. Mycroft would be at home late, and he didn’t want Mrs Hudson to get even more suspicious.

That was the part of their forbidden relationship that sucked. He couldn’t tell anybody about it, and he could hardly stay away overnight all the time as Mrs Hudson would clearly get suspicious. She probably already was. And of course Molly had to wonder about his lack of interest in getting body parts from her. Maybe John would tell them the story about the book now and they would leave him alone. But he still had to be very careful.

He said goodbye to John and then hailed a cab home. And in a little while, he would go to his brother’s house and wait for him to drop by, and perhaps they would get tactile before Mycroft had to leave for his bloody party.

*****

“Now that’s a surprise, brother mine.” Mycroft walked into the living room. “But you do know that I am on the run?”

Sherlock knew that his brother had attended a meeting in the Diogenes and this was probably the reason why he had not brought his clothes for the party to Whitehall to change before the event. Or perhaps he had just wanted to prepare himself mentally for an evening with idiots at home. “I know. But I wanted to make sure that you go there looking your impeccable best.”

“Oh, I see. Didn’t trust me to shower and shave and dress all alone, did you?” Mycroft curled his arms around him.

“Naturally not. You need me to look dapper.”

“I do, little brother.” Mycroft kissed him on the lips and Sherlock all but melted into their quickly escalating lip-locking. “I need to get ready, as much as I’d prefer going on with this. If I’m late, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be waiting to say goodbye to you.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Somehow I don’t think you’re going to do this by giving me a chaste kiss.”

Sherlock grinned. “Get ready and then we’ll see how much time you’ve got.”

“You will mess me up again.”

“No. I won’t even undress you. Completely.”

Mycroft gave him a knowing grin. “I see. Want to blow the Iceman in evening attire?”

Damn. His brother really knew him well… “Exactly.”

Mycroft smacked his arse. “Wait for me in the bedroom. And mix me a drink, will you?”

“With pleasure. I guess you can only survive this with alcohol…”

“You can bloody bet on that.” Mycroft gave him a smooch on the lips and then hurried upstairs.

Sherlock watched him go, admiring his pert behind and those endless legs. How had he gotten so lucky to be allowed to make love to this sexy man? With a probably silly grin on his face, he proceeded to take care of the expected drink.

*****

“Make sure there’s no drool or come on my trousers when you’re finished.”

“Can’t promise that. But I’ll lick it all off,” Sherlock promised while he fumbled Mycroft's hardening cock and heavy balls out of their confinements. His brother looked as fantastic as expected in his gorgeous tuxedo. He was positively edible and Sherlock was determined to do exactly that – eat him. At least a part of him.

“I’m warning you.”

“You’ve sounded more convincing when you did that,” Sherlock informed him, and grinned when Mycroft chuckled. The chuckle turned into a moan moments later when Sherlock took the engorged head into his mouth.

He had still not made his brother come with his mouth alone and he definitely wanted to change that. And he would have to swallow his load to make sure he didn’t go to a party with all the government big heads with completely soiled trousers.

“Yes, that’s nice,” Mycroft, sitting on his bed with the drink in his hand, crooned. “Lick my balls, too.”

Oh yes, the balls. Sherlock turned his attention to them, lapping at the soft, hairy skin while his hand was sliding up and down the thick shaft, teasing at the slit when he got there.

“Mm. Very nice. Will turn you into a perfect cock sucker,” Mycroft promised, and Sherlock grinned.

“Will have that on my card. Consulting detective and perfect cock sucker.”

“As you should have.”

Mycroft sounded decidedly amused – but too eloquent. Sherlock longed for turning him into the same babbling mess he became when Mycroft was taking care of him. So he increased his efforts, sucking Mycroft's testicles into his mouth, making his brother moan and hiss, and then he used his hands to further fondling the heavy sack while returning to sucking his cock, harder this time, taking him as deep as he dared do – which was not very deep, much to his chagrin. But he knew that a cock was most sensitive and responsive at the head and directly under it, so he focused on the glans and the delicate frenulum, playing with alternating the pressure between hard and barely-there. Mycroft was definitely very much aroused now, his long fingers buried in Sherlock's thick curls, massaging his scalp, and he was stammering encouraging, pleading and reassuring words, sounding a lot less sensible now, much to Sherlock's joy.

He was rock hard in his own trousers, and he fumbled his leaking cock out now, which had left a wet patch on his underwear. It was massively arousing to pleasure his brother like this, knowing that the big bad Iceman would soon leave for his fancy event, still feeling Sherlock's lips and tongue on his then spent cock, thinking of him when he was talking to the King or whoever was running around in the holy halls of power tonight.

“Get off of me, I’m coming,” Mycroft urged him, but Sherlock was determined to do it until the end.

He almost choked on the sticky seed that flooded his mouth, and it took the last bit of his self-control not to vomit all over his brother. Coughing and with his eyes stinging with tears, he managed to swallow the thick ropes of come, and it felt as if they were clogging his throat.

“Here, drink that.” Mycroft offered him the glass with the stiff drink Sherlock had mixed for him, and Sherlock greedily downed the leftovers.

Mycroft regarded him with fond exasperation, he discovered through the tears in his eyes. “You silly boy. I told you to get away.” He pulled Sherlock up and placed him on the bed next to him.

“Didn’t want to.” Sherlock let himself fall backwards. His cock was still hard and bobbing against his groin.

“It was ghastly, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock grimaced. “No. Not ghastly. But… difficult.”

“You don’t have to do this. I’d rather you take my load on your clothes than you puke onto mine…”

Sherlock giggled. “Not happening. Ate it all up like a good boy.”

“Yes, you did. Allow me to return the favour. I will certainly still have this one minute until I have to get ready to leave.”

“Bad brother, teasing me with… Oh…”

It didn’t even take a minute until Sherlock pumped his own load into Mycroft’s mouth. Of course his brother took it with grace and nonchalance.

“I _will_ learn to do that properly,” Sherlock promised when he was able to speak again.

“I’m sure you will.” Mycroft kissed him on the lips. “I guess I’ll have to make myself respectable again now and brush my teeth…”

Sherlock grinned widely. “A good idea, I’d say.”

“Will you return to Baker Street?”

Sherlock sighed. “I guess so. I assume you won’t be in the mood for a shag when you’re through with this nonsense?”

It was Mycroft's turn to sigh. “I guess not. Probably I’ll rather feel like punching someone. And I’ll have to get up as early as always.”

“Working yourself into the ground, brother. Not good for your heart.”

“I’m not ancient, little brother. But your concern is touching.” Mycroft kissed him on the forehead. “My driver will pick me up in a few minutes. I’ve better be going.”

“Fine. I’ll take a cab home.”

“Yes. It’s better.”

They shared a look and Sherlock was surprised to see that it seemed to irk Mycroft, too – having to hide how much better they were getting along these days. But it just didn’t do to make anyone suspicious. It was okay. As long as they could have _this_ , Sherlock was happy. His face must have expressed his feelings as Mycroft gave him the sweetest smile that Sherlock had ever seen on his face. He even stroked over Sherlock's hair before he finally got up to turn himself into the Iceman again, ready to play nice with idiots for an endless evening.


	12. The Caretaker

Mycroft Holmes really liked his job. It was strenuous, he hardly saw the light of day as he spent all day in one of his offices and it sometimes wrecked his last nerve. But he liked the power of his unique position; a position he had created for himself, a position that made him irreplaceable. He loved being feared by minions and politicians. He was a string puller, a gifted manipulator (like Sherlock, actually) and more often than not the world was his to play with.

But he hated, despised and went crazy about events like this one. The only good things about playing nice with a bunch of complete idiots instead of being in his house with Sherlock was the fact that he got to wear his tuxedo, which suited him very well, and that there were streams of excellent champagne and masses of tasty canapés. But the people… the noise… the PM, finding himself irresistible and intelligent, blathering away as if he’d crawled out of a cave a minute ago. Anthea, who looked very nice in a tight, blue dress, had to shoo half of the males away, and Mycroft watched her disappear to the rest rooms with an exasperated look, which made him smile. He would give her a day off for her agreement to attend this ghastly party.

And then… “Mycroft… I can’t thank you enough…”

A scrawny hand was being put onto his arm. The lady was dressed in red. A dress, a bit too young and too not-there. High heels, also in red. Red lipstick. And that certain glimmer in her eyes.

Mycroft made sure they would not be overheard. They had agreed on not mentioning this again, but she’d had some champagne, too… “I’m sure your husband sleeps better now,” he reminded her of the fact that she was married in a none too subtle way, and disentangled his arm.

She gave him a pathetic look. “Yes,” she murmured. “It was so nice of you to take care of this.”

They had not found out who the young man had been who had died alongside Magnussen and his driver. He had been living with false papers but they had not revealed his true identity. Not that it mattered. Nobody was asking for him and he was, well, dead. Mycroft shuddered at the thought that he had lost his life while servicing Magnussen intimately. What had he been out for? They would never know. Magnussen had taken his secrets and blackmail material into the grave. They had found nothing in Appledore, his posh home. No files, no data. The man must have had an enormous brain to store all this delicate information away. Well, it had not helped him in the end…

He sighed when he saw the Prime Minister coming over to them. The lady stirred. "Excuse me. I need to... talk to someone." With this she hastened away, pretending to have not seen the big boss approaching them.

Mycroft wasn’t sure who of them was the lesser evil. He greeted the silly man with gritted teeth and pretended to listen to his empty phrases until his he turned his attention to the next victim and left, rather shaky on his crooked legs. Mycroft took the opportunity to retreat for a while. He would call Sherlock and maybe even do some work in his office. Probably he would have half an hour before the PM would be missing him and get grumpy.

He took off his jacket and let himself fall into his chair, enjoying the silence of his office. What might Sherlock be up to now? He decided to listen to what was going on in the flat. Later he would think he might have had a premonition, which had kept him from calling Sherlock straight away…

*****

“ _What’s your name?”_

“ _Faith. Faith Smith.”_

“ _You say that as if I was meant to recognise it. Really? Smith?”_

“ _My father… is Culverton Smith.”_

“ _Doesn’t ring a bell, either.”_

“ _He’s a philanthropist. Does a lot for charity. He even sort of runs a hospital. Saint Cadwalla’s.”_

“ _Fine. So what’s the matter?”_

“ _Three years ago… my father told me he wanted to kill someone. One word, Mr Holmes… and it changed my world forever. Just one word._

“ _What word?”_

“ _A name.”_

“ _What name?”_

“ _I can’t remember. I can’t remember who my father wanted to kill... and I don’t know if he ever did it.”_

*****

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be! But Mycroft knew what he was hearing. _Whom_ he was hearing.

He hurried out of his office, the phone still at his ear. He found Anthea with a completely pissed-off face in a corner, enduring a speech by the Foreign Minister. When she saw his face, she immediately excused herself.

“I need your assistance,” Mycroft told her in a low voice, not aiming to draw unwelcome attention to himself. He was trying to hide how shaken he was.

“Of course, sir.”

“Find out where a woman named Faith Smith is currently located. She’s the daughter of this creepy looking man who runs a charity hospital, Culverton Smith.” He had seen the man on telly and he couldn’t have said he found him very compelling. He was very sure that the client Sherlock was talking to was, in fact, not Smith’s daughter but he had to be a hundred percent certain.

Anthea was on her phone already. “Anything else?”

“Baker Street. Two capable agents have to observe and follow a woman who is currently in the house with my brother. Nobody should address or arrest her, or get noticed. They are just to follow and watch her, find out where she’s going.” He could only hope that she wouldn’t try to harm Sherlock now. But he doubted it. She was playing a role and she was playing it well. He could still hear them talk and there was no hostility so far. If he tried to interfere now, it could cause a disaster.

“I’ll arrange it at once.” Anthea didn’t ask questions, being her efficient self. She knew that something very serious was happening but she would never even guess what it was.

She, like Sherlock and almost everyone else, knew nothing about the existence of his sister Eurus.

Mycroft stalked back into his office, slamming the door. He too had a phone call to make.

*****

Thirty minutes later, he was sitting at his desk, his face buried in his hands. His suspicions had been confirmed. Not only was Faith Smith attending a private party at a friend’s house, the governor of Sherrinford, the institution that was to be containing his sister, had stammered like a fool, saying that Eurus was not available right now as she had been brought to the hospital of the prison. When Mycroft had, putting concern in his voice, asked what was wrong with his sister, he had stammered some more, and in the end he had assured Mycroft that Eurus would certainly be able to talk to him in the morning. Mycroft, not wanting to raise suspicion by being too naive, had pretended to be receiving another call and excused himself.

And Eurus, and there was no doubt anymore that it was Eurus, had left Baker Street. And she had taken a cab and had been brought to a bloody helicopter. Which had flown her back to Sherrinford.

This all was so unbelievable that Mycroft could have hammered his head against the top of his desk. How could he have not noticed that Eurus had taken over the prison? Had corrupted the staff, even the governor, and had run free, searching out Sherlock to do God knew what?

He had been slipping, massively. He should have taken care of her when Moriarty had started haunting Sherlock after talking to her. He had been so sure that Sherrinford was secure.

“Sir?”

He looked up. “Thanks for your help, Anthea.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

Yes. There was something. “Find out everything you can about Culverton Smith. My brother has been told he’s a killer.” Somehow he was sure that this was the truth, wherever Eurus had gotten it from. And Sherlock would do anything he could to bring the man down. And what would happen then? Smith was a VIP. A master of hiding his real character, if what Eurus had told Sherlock was true. A dangerous man. He had to be stopped. And not by his brother… “Find out if there are rumours we haven’t heard of. Especially about his hospital.” Where to find helpless victims easier than in this place?

“I have already initiated this, sir, and I’ll be informed in about ten minutes.”

Of course she had already done that. He gave her a grateful smile. “I guess then we should go back for a while.” He couldn’t even imagine being among those people now. But Sherlock was safe for tonight. He was still in Baker Street, probably doing research on his new case, and Eurus was on her way back to the prison that couldn’t contain her. Tomorrow he would call her again…

“I’m sure there is still champagne, sir,” Anthea said with a wink.

“I need whiskey,” Mycroft said full of conviction.

“Consider it organised.”

He really didn’t know what he would do without this competent woman. She hadn’t asked who the woman in Sherlock's company had been. She never asked anything she thought he didn’t want or need her to know, and she still did her job perfectly.

Back in the large room full of ghastly people, he tried to blend in. But it was harder than ever. It was a nasty thought that if he hadn’t listened to Sherlock's conversation with their sister more or less accidentally, he would still know nothing about her having turned Sherrinford into her personal playground, because that was what she had obviously done. He didn’t like that one bit. It made him look like a fool towards himself, and he could not stand it.

*****

Leaning against the door frame, Mycroft watched his sleeping brother. A peaceful sight.

It was probably stupid of him to come here in the middle of the night. Unforgivably sentimental. He had known that Sherlock was safe. But he had been drawn to him like a moth to the light. A weird picture, considering that it was not quite three am and that Sherlock might be his light, sure he was, but Mycroft didn’t consider himself a mindless insect.

Before coming here, he had arranged Culverton Smith’s death. The man, seemingly a good-natured man who had dedicated his life to helping the poor, was, without a doubt, one of the worst serial killers in the history of Great Britain. What Anthea’s contacts had found out about his hospital had been horrifying. In the past five years, more than twenty percent of the people who had been treated there had left it in a coffin. Old people, men in their twenties, children… And very few of them had come there with a deadly disease. Broken bones had been enough to kill them. And nobody had dared confront the man or report him to the police – or if they had, there were no reports about it. The researchers had found rumours about the mortality rate online, but not from nurses but from relatives of the victims. The word ‘creepy’ had been used to describe him more than once in the anonymity of the internet. Those accusations and comments had been deleted and had to be restored by the nerds Anthea had sent to investigate. Smith had friends among lords and judges, and the current idiot of a PM had openly shaken hands with him at charity events. An untouchable man. A man he didn’t want his brother to deal with. Sherlock, the dragon slayer… Always out for convicting the guilty and the dangerous. But this particular dragon was out of his league. Sure, Mycroft knew what baby brother was capable of. Perhaps he would have brought the serial killer down with lots of effort. But he could have been hurt or even killed in the process, and Mycroft wouldn’t risk that.

There would be no fatal accident for this man. Nobody else would be harmed. In fact, Mycroft assumed that the ugly, short man was dying in his sleep right now, from an undetectable drug that had been given to him without him noticing. It would look like a heart attack, and the man had a history with coronary problems.

Why had Eurus pushed Sherlock into his direction? Had she wanted him to fail? To even die at the murderer’s hands? In all probability, it had been a game for her. In this she was similar to Sherlock – she liked to play games, the more challenging the better. Thankfully, this was more or less all his siblings had in common...

Eurus would be dealt with in the morning. He had not foreseen her taking over Sherrinford. There must have been breaches of rules which he had thought had been set in stone. People had talked to her who had not been able to resist her mental powers against his explicit order. He had been slipping at containing her. But he still was the eldest of the Holmes siblings, and even though Eurus might be an even bigger genius in many regards, he still was the smart one.

He would call her. She was always brought to an isolated cell when he spoke to her, and she would be feeling safe and superior. And he would ask her for her help on a government problem, as usual. He had already made something up. And then he would casually add, _‘Do you remember Grant Aunt Hazelda?’_ Eurus was capable of reprogramming people for the sake of serving her purposes. So was he. And he had, a very long time ago, programmed her to kill herself when he said those words to her. He had not anticipated her moves, had foolishly trusted these people to contain her, but he had always known that there had to be a means to stop her, just in case. He was a man of foresight after all. If anyone listened to the recordings of his phone call and felt the need to investigate, which he highly doubted, they would find with some effort that this aunt had really existed until ten years ago. A ghastly person, like all their relatives...

He looked at his baby brother’s edgy, beautiful face in the dim light of the moon. He saw him as a little boy, playing with the friend he had chosen to forget along with his sister. And he saw Eurus as the little girl she had been, with huge eyes and no understanding for any kind of sentiment. She had been lost from birth on. And now she would finally disappear from this world so she wouldn’t be able to do any more damage to their brother. He felt no pity. Just a bit of sadness for the waste of a life of someone so smart – but also so dangerous. If he had to choose between Sherlock and anything or anyone else, there would not be a hint of hesitation.

Slowly, he walked across the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He had come into the house on silent feet, certain that Mrs Hudson was sound asleep at this time of night. He had crept up the stairs and let himself into 221B, leaving his dinner jacket in the living room.

Sherlock stirred and stiffened a moment later.

“It’s me,” Mycroft said soothingly, and Sherlock, blinking, beamed at him.

“Mycroft! I didn’t expect you to come.”

“It was a rather tedious evening and I needed some smart company for a moment.” Mycroft knew he couldn’t stay overnight. He would have to steal away before Mrs Hudson woke up. But now he curled his arms around his brother, and they kissed with increasing passion.

“What have you been up to?” he asked Sherlock then, wondering if his brother had found anything fishy about his mysterious client.

“Got a case. A big one. A murderer, pretending to be a good man.” He told Mycroft about Culverton Smith, and Mycroft nodded here and there, listening closely.

Sherlock had no idea that he had not been talking to Faith Smith. He was excited to go after a killer nobody had convicted so far. He would be very disappointed the next day but he would get over it.

Mycroft knew that he couldn’t protect his brother from every danger, especially as the detective was so keen on searching them out and throwing himself into them. There would always be a new case, a new killer, and Mycroft could only hope that he would take care of himself, and if he slipped, that there would be time to save him. John Watson would not be at his side too often, and Greg Lestrade was a busy man, but he genuinely liked Sherlock and Mycroft knew that the inspector would do a lot to make sure that Sherlock wasn’t harmed. That had to do.

He smiled when Sherlock pulled him down, tearing at his crisp white shirt. His little brother would never find out that he had a sister. He would never regain his memories – Mycroft would do everything in his power to keep them under the surface. It was for the better. He had the strong feeling that he had saved Sherlock from a very unpleasant fate this night and it made him shudder.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock looked up to him, his eyes confused and concerned.

“Nothing, little brother. Just… take care. Always.”

“I do.”

“I mean it. Your loss would break my heart.” The words were as sentimental as they were true.

He could see Sherlock's eyes glowing in the pale light. “And why is that so?” the younger man asked softly.

“Because I love you.” These words had finally come over his lips, and easily, in the end. He wondered why it had taken him so long to finally say them.

Sherlock bit his lip and his hands stroked frantically over Mycroft's shoulders and back. “You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“I love you, too, Mycroft.” Sherlock's deep voice was no more than a whisper.

Mycroft smiled at him and squeezed his waist. “I know, and I’m very glad.”

They looked at each other for a long, loaded moment. “I know you can’t sleep here but… would you mind undressing and just… being with me for a while?” Sherlock asked, shyly.

Mycroft had already accepted that he wouldn’t get any sleep tonight, and it was fine. He would have a nap in the Diogenes when he had taken care of Eurus. “Yes, little brother. Of course.”

And after a short while, they were cuddled up, both naked and half-hard, but not acting on it for now. There was a time and a place for everything, and now was the time for sentiment, tenderness and closeness. They rarely spoke but there was no need for further words. Shields had been lowered, probably even shattered, and everything that counted was that Sherlock was safe and knew that he loved him. Sherlock's safety was his number one priority, and it had always been. Whoever tried to harm his little brother would not see him coming.

Mycroft covered his lover’s body with his own and buried his face in the crook of a pale, long neck, feeling Sherlock's arms around his centre, and for now, it was all good.

**Epilogue**

At nine-thirty the next morning, Mycroft called Sherrinford again. This time Eurus was able to come to the phone. He explained the complicated matter on which he needed her help on, and she told him that she would take care of it. Her voice sounded smug to an extent that made Mycroft want to vomit but in best Iceman manner, he didn’t show it. And when the call was almost over, he asked his sister a certain question. There was silence on the line, and then she mumbled a dazed-sounding ‘no’. She did not remember the long gone aunt.

An hour later, she was found in her cell. The cameras had shown nothing out of the ordinary. She seemed to be sleeping, which she often did after breakfast as she used to stay up most of the night. But this time, she wasn’t asleep. She had used the bow of her violin to stab her heart, covering herself with her blanket, and there wasn’t even that much blood as her heart had of course stopped at once. The governor’s head snapped up the moment she died, and he felt as if he was waking up from a dream. For no apparent reason, he at once called his wife, who was surprised to hear from him at this time of day, and they exchanged a few loving words. Then he went to the cell of his creepiest prisoner, looking at her surprisingly peaceful-looking corpse, and when the arrangements had been made, he called a very intimidating man, who yelled at him for the lack of observation in his bloody prison. When the governor had been allowed to end the call, his ear was ringing.

The man on the other end of the line had a grim smile on his face when he stored his phone again, and somehow he felt the urge to text his handsome lover.

***

Said lover grumbled and cursed about the fact that Culverton Smith had died of a natural cause the previous night. In fact he almost threw his phone against the wall when he had read the news. Gone was his exciting case. He was grumpy all day until he went to meet a man who knew exactly how to make him feel good, and who did not mention that he had anything to do with the death of a very nasty man.

***

And so the Holmes men continued their exciting, incestuous relationship, exploring their sexuality together, and it was all most satisfying. They even discovered that they liked performing watersports quite a bit.

They didn’t tell each other these important three words every day, but they did throw them in from time to time, and it felt more natural each time they spoke them out, and perhaps they elicited silly grins from both of them whenever they were mentioned.

***

Molly Hooper did not marry her fiancé. He was just not the right man for her. She never stopped longing for the one man she had really given her heart to, but she never told him. He knew it of course but he didn’t exactly care. He hardly came by for experiments anymore, and she felt kind of bitter about basically not seeing him at all. In the end she adopted two cats, and they made her smile and loved to cuddle with her when she was lying in her otherwise lonely bed.

***

Mary Watson gave birth to a beautiful baby, which received the name ‘Rosamund’ for a reason that she never told her husband. Nobody ever found out about her secrets, and she was more than grateful for the second chance she had been given. Sherlock was asked to be the godfather of the girl who was called ‘Rosie’ by everyone, and seeing him dealing with her was a constant source of amusement. Rosie loved her peculiar godfather very much.

***

The Holmes brothers visited their parents for Christmas, and bickered and teased each other until Mummy hit them with a tea towel and Father shook his head about them.

***

Encouraged by his wife, John Watson returned to solving cases with Sherlock Holmes whenever he didn’t have a shift in the clinic. Things between the famous detective and his blogger were not quite the same as they had been before Sherlock's fake death, but they were okay. He was a happy man with a devoted, albeit cheeky wife, and he loved her and his daughter dearly, and he would always also love his crazy best friend.

***

Sherlock wrote his book about the criminal elements of London, and it was showered with praise so he told John that he would work on a follow-up.

***

Greg Lestrade gave up on reminding Sherlock of his first name. He was merely glad to see that the lad was apparently happy and continued to help him with his cases. Sometimes he and John went to the pub together, and one day he bumped into a beautiful woman he had first met on John’s wedding – one of Mary’s bridesmaids, Janine, and they started to date. A year later, they had their very own wedding, and Greg Lestrade finally became what he had always wanted to be – a father.

When he one time visited Baker Street and found the two Holmes brothers sitting in Sherlock's living room, each a glass of whiskey in his hand, he smirked to himself, proud that he had obviously convinced Sherlock of his brother's care for him, leading to the special, complicated brothers to get along better than ever as it seemed.

He might have been one of Scotland Yard’s brightest detectives – after all he had years ago realised that he needed help on some cases and had allowed Sherlock to work with him, to their mutual benefit – but he remained completely oblivious to the nature and strength of the Holmes’s newfound relationship.

*** 

Anthea continued to support her boss as efficiently as she could. She had been glad to see him gradually change. There had always been a sadness or melancholy to him, and it had vanished little by little. He was obviously in love, and the list of people who could be the recipient of his feelings contained exactly one name. She never mentioned this of course but when Sherlock dropped by, usually bringing lunch, she smiled to herself and made sure that nobody got even near her boss’s office.

***

A woman named Vivian Norbury continued to work for the government, and her existence remained unknown to Sherlock. She was never confronted with her betrayal that had led to the death of innocent people in Tbilisi. So she went on spending a lot of time in the London Aquarium and with her cats, enjoying her peace and quiet, and she never did a criminal thing in her life again.

***

Sometimes, when he had been working very late, Mycroft dared drop by in Baker Street to pay a surprise visit to his lovely other half, who was always delighted to get some kisses and cuddles.

In some of these nights, Mrs Hudson listened to very silent steps on the stairs, and smiled to herself. Sherlock was really happy these days. Perhaps she would one night go upstairs and tell the elder Mr Holmes that he was welcome to stay and have breakfast with his lovely little brother.

The End  
  
  



End file.
